Page 1

CHAPTER 1

Trowbridge, Wessex

May AD 871

THE PUNGENT AROMAS OF ROASTING venison and sweet mead filled the banquet hall. Servants flitted between the long tables, replenishing goblets, bread baskets, and platters of fruit and meat. At Aisley’s right, a scop plucked at his lyre, his melodic chants recounting the Saxons’ victory against the Vikings at Ashdown almost six months earlier, and from their positions at the head table, two of the king’s thegns raised their cups and cheered. Others in the room took up the shout, expressing their loyalty to the new king and a resolve to purge their land of the plundering horde from the north.

Aisley wrapped her narrow fingers around the wooden goblet before her. At only twelve years of age, she had never before attended a banquet of this grandeur—certainly none that boasted the King of Wessex as its guest of honor. And the men’s passionate outburst was a discomforting reminder that she did not truly know what was expected of her. Was she to respond in kind? Or were the females in the room—especially the young ones—exempt from such displays of eagerness?

Hazarding a glance at her mother, who was seated beside her, Aisley waited for some softly worded direction. But her mother’s lips were pursed closed, and rather than reflecting the tangible eagerness in the room, she appeared troubled. Indeed, if the barely noticeable lines running across her forehead were any indication, the scop’s efforts at engendering enthusiasm for King Alfred’s cause seemed to have fully missed their mark with her.

“Mother?” Aisley could barely hear her own voice above the surrounding cacophony. “Is something amiss?”

“I must procure more milk thistle and parsley,” her mother said. “There is barely enough dried milk thistle seed in the crock for one cup of tea.”

Understanding, like a weighted ball, settled in Aisley’s stomach. She turned her attention to the head table once more. As Ealdorman of Wiltshire and King Alfred’s host, Aisley’s father was seated there, to the left of the king.

Though not more than twenty and one years of age, the king’s presence exuded authority. His hair and beard were brown, his dark eyes bright and alert. Only two years the king’s junior, Aisley’s older brother, Wulfhere, sat at their father’s left. His broad shoulders and ruddy cheeks were a picture of good health and a stark contrast to her father’s sallow skin and pinched expression.

“Father is in pain,” Aisley said.

Her mother gave a tight nod. “He would not countenance missing the royal banquet, even if his health suffers because of it.”

The weight in Aisley’s stomach moved to her chest. “But you can help him. Your medicinal tea has repeatedly brought him relief from the discomfort that plagues him.”

“We have been fortunate that he has responded so well to it,” her mother said. “I pray such providence continues.”

It would continue. It had to. Over the last few years, her father’s more vigorous activities had been curtailed by bouts of gnawing pain and swollen feet. Her mother claimed it was his liver. The tea she occasionally steeped for him appeared to help above all other treatments, but nothing had successfully cured him of the malady, and recent attacks had seemed to last longer and be more painful than the previous ones.

Aisley watched her father lower his knife to the trencher of meat before him. The blade shook slightly in his trembling fingers. She slid her hands beneath the table and clasped them tightly on her knee. She was not sure if God listened to the silent prayers of young girls who were as unlearned as she, but if He did, she hoped He would facilitate an end to the merrymaking so her father might retire to his bed with his pride intact.

“I will seek out some milk thistle and parsley at first light,” she said.

“There is likely some parsley in the kitchen garden,” her mother said, “but you will have to search the hedgerows for the milk thistle.”

“I will find them,” Aisley promised, attempting to smother her fears for her father’s well-being with determination.

Her mother’s expression softened slightly. “Mayhap you can harvest the milk thistle’s seeds this time.”

Aisley’s grip on her clasped fingers tightened. Her childhood had been filled with long rambles through the nearby woods and fields with her mother, where she’d been taught how to recognize all manner of flowers, leaves, and berries. Along with being charged with memorizing the names of each plant, she had also been tutored in their curative properties. She’d long since been the only person her mother trusted to procure plants for her remedies, but although Aisley had watched her mother prepare herbs for a soothing salve or restorative tea more times than she could count, she had yet to make one herself.

“But if I were to make an error . . .” She swallowed. She would not—could not—be the person responsible for causing her father to suffer.

“Your aptitude for healing is undeniable,” her mother said. “You are ready to do more than gather the plants.”

“How can you know that? I have never assisted anyone in their healing.”

Her mother offered a ghost of a smile. “How many times have you come to the aid of your brother with a dock leaf when he has encountered nettles? Or offered a sprig of heal-all to your sister when she has complained of pain in her throat? To assuage the discomfort of others comes so naturally to you, you do not recognize your gift.”

Aisley stared at her mother. Was it true? She had never been as confident among strangers or so good with horses as her brother. Her younger sister, Diera, was prettier and better with a needle than Aisley. Indeed, there were times when the comparisons had stung. More often than not, her mother publicly praised Aisley’s siblings’ obvious talents, leaving Aisley wondering if she was good for anything more than gathering flowers to decorate the banquet hall. “I . . . I do like plants,” she said as the first tendrils of awareness caught hold.

“And you give them the respect they deserve,” her mother said. “That fact alone sets you apart from most.”

Aisley’s gaze returned to her father. He turned from speaking with Wulfhere to reach for his goblet. Even from a distance, his wince at the slight movement was unmistakable.

Desire to alleviate his pain surged through her. “Can Father not excuse himself to rest?” Even as she voiced the words, Aisley knew it was a futile thought.

Before her mother could respond, however, the gray-haired thegn sitting on the other side of the king rose to his feet. “Silence in the hall!” he called. “The king wishes to address his subjects.”