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“She’s been doin’ marvelously, mistress.” Cook wiped her wet hands on a rag and moved away from a large pot of water to bob a curtsy.

“I’m glad to hear it. But you’ve been here long enough for one day.”

Aisley glanced at the small pile of unshelled peapods. She was so close to finishing; it seemed a terrible shame to walk away now. “It would not take me—” She stopped as the clatter of hooves reached them. Far more hooves than Daisy could claim.

Her mother’s gaze darted to the window, and the next moment, Diera flew through the door.

“They’re back,” she gasped. “Father, Wulfhere, all the men, and their horses.”

“You’ve seen Father?” Aisley had already set down the bowl of peas and was making for the door.

“Well, no. Not yet. But his men would not return without him, would they?”

With her mother and Diera close at her heels, Aisley ran into the courtyard. Already the large square was filling with men and horses. The wagon rolled slowly up to the main door of the longhouse, and the man riding beside it turned to speak to the driver.

“It’s Wulfhere,” Diera cried, waving.

Aisley glanced at her mother. She was exhibiting none of Diera’s enthusiasm. Her face had paled, and her gaze had yet to leave the wagon. Aisley turned her attention to the back of the vehicle. Swords and shields lined one side. A gray blanket covered whatever lay on the other.

Wulfhere dismounted. He must have seen them standing outside the kitchen, because he started toward them, his gait stiff and his face grave.

“Dear God.” Her mother’s murmured words were barely audible. “Let it not be so.”

“Mother.” Wulfhere reached them and bowed politely to their mother.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“He is gone,” Wulfhere said. “Killed by a Viking spear on the battlefield.”

Aisley stared at Wulfhere, attempting to comprehend his words. No. It could not be. Not her father. She swung back to face the blanketed object in the wagon, understanding and tears releasing simultaneously. “Father is dead?” she whispered.

Wulfhere offered her a curt nod. Diera looked from him to their mother and started to sniffle.

Their mother stood stiffly, her hands clasped tightly at her sides. “I warned him.” Her voice wavered. “I told him not to go.”

“You did,” Wulfhere said. “It would have served him well to listen.”

“What good is that knowledge now?”

He looked away. “I should have supported you when you spoke to him of your concerns.”

Their mother released a short breath. “This is no more your fault than mine.”

“Agreed.” Something flashed in Wulfhere’s eyes. “If the blame is to fall anywhere, it should be placed firmly upon King Alfred’s head.”

“But you said it was a Viking who took Father’s life.” Aisley swiped at her tears.

“Aye. In a massacre that never should have happened.” Bitterness filled his voice. “Thousands of men killed—and for what? Nothing. Worse than nothing. Wessex has lost its men and its gold.”

“The king agreed to pay the Danegeld,” her mother said.

“Aye.” Wulfhere snorted. “If he was willing to barter our gold for peace, he should have done it before the slaughter.”

“I do not understand.” Aisley looked from her mother to Wulfhere, desperate for clarity. Nothing made sense. Her father was gone, and yet they appeared more anxious to place blame than to grieve his loss.

“You are too young to apprehend what has happened,” Wulfhere said.

“I am old enough.” Aisley raised her chin. “Father would have explained if he were here.”