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Wulfhere released a frustrated grunt. “The king has agreed to pay the Viking chieftain a great deal of gold on condition that the chieftain and his men leave Wessex. Churches will be stripped of their treasures, and taxes on the citizens of Wessex will increase to pay the debt.”

“We are ruined,” their mother said, the first hint of fear entering her voice. “Without your father, we can pay nothing. We have nothing.”

“The danegeld will make life more difficult, but we shall manage,” Wulfhere said. “I am the Ealdorman of Wiltshire now.”

Their mother gasped. “The king has given the position to you?”

“He has.”

She smiled. It was her first real smile since Aisley’s father had ridden out of the courtyard. Aisley looked away, emotion churning within her. Wulfhere’s appointment may have allayed her mother’s anxiety, but it had done nothing to alleviate the aching emptiness in Aisley’s chest. She stifled a sob. Her father was gone. Even if the Vikings were no longer an imminent threat, from this moment on, nothing in her life would ever be the same.

CHAPTER 6

Chippenham, Wiltshire

January AD 878

IT WAS BITTERLY COLD. AISLEY’S breath hung in the air in frozen puffs, and she had long since lost all feeling in her toes. Diera stood at her side, her nose the color of a beetroot—a sure sign that her sister had been out in the elements too long. But whatever discomfort Diera was experiencing was obviously insufficient to dampen her enthusiasm for Chippenham’s market. Despite the January chill, eagerness shone in her blue eyes. There were simply too many stalls laden with beautiful things for her to contemplate cutting their visit short.

Aisley had never visited this particular market before, but she thought it likely that this week it was larger and grander than usual. King Alfred was in residence at the royal court, and he had invited thegns and their families from around Wessex to join the festivities leading up to and including the celebration of Twelfth Night. Never one to turn down the opportunity to sit at the king’s table and partake of a royal feast, Wulfhere had declared that they must all travel from Trowbridge to Chippenham for the holiday.

Local vendors, their carts filled with eggs, butter, and cheese, vied for the attention of the king’s visitors with those who had come to sell from farther afield. The town square was a vast tapestry of colors, with jostling customers milling through the stalls and haggling voices and potent aromas filling the air.

They wove through the crowd toward the far corner of the square, where an inn appeared to be doing an even better business than the merchants bartering outside its door. A table covered with fine fabrics drew Diera’s attention.

“Oh, Aisley.” She pointed at a bolt of dark-blue linen. “Have you ever seen the like?”

At present, the sight of a warm fire would have interested Aisley more, but she forced a smile. “It is exquisite, though far too costly to purchase, I am sure.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Diera huffed. “Wulfhere would never say such a thing.”

Aisley suppressed a sigh. It was true. Wulfhere rarely refused Diera anything, and his penchant for acquiring extravagant clothing was almost as great as Diera’s. Not more than a fortnight ago, he had purchased a new fur-lined traveling cloak when the one he’d used last year remained in excellent condition. Aisley winced at the thought. It had been over six years since the Battle of Wilton, and yet there were far too many commoners in Wiltshire who had yet to recover from the loss of their husbands and fathers. Women working themselves to exhaustion to provide for hungry children in tattered clothing. Aisley’s heart ached for them. Wulfhere did not watch over his people the way their father had, and it filled her with a torturous mixture of guilt and sadness.

Like a moth to a candle, Diera moved closer to the finely woven fabric. Aisley hung back, her gaze shifting from the linen-laden table to the two gentlemen standing just beyond the merchant’s display. One had his back to her, his dark wavy hair uncovered despite the bitter cold. The other had his head covered by the hood of his traveling cloak and appeared to be leaning against the wall of the inn, as though needing the support of the stone structure. As she watched, the hooded gentleman ran an unsteady hand across his pale face. Concern filled her, and she took an involuntary step toward them before catching herself. Surely the gentleman’s companion could offer assistance if it was truly needed.

“You are skilled in a great many things, my friend.” The gentleman groaned before continuing. “Unfortunately, healing is not one of them. The fresh air you suggested as a cure-all is doing nothing to improve my symptoms.”

Aisley’s breath caught. She had been correct. The gentleman was unwell. And she could not simply stand idly by if her knowledge of healing remedies might be the means of easing his suffering. Allowing instinct to overcome whatever common sense she owned, she circled the merchant’s table and came up behind the ailing gentleman’s companion.

“I beg your pardon, sire.” The dark-haired man swung around, but Aisley kept her focus on the one leaning against the wall. “I do not mean to intrude, but am I correct in believing you are unwell?”

The gentleman shifted so that his forehead now rested against the wall. “I daresay I do give that impression.” He took a couple of deep breaths. “Forgive me—” With another groan, he staggered around the corner of the inn. Moments later, the sound of retching reached her.

“Rheged’s timing has always been impeccable.” There was humor in the dark-haired man’s voice. “I would hazard a guess that if whatever is plaguing the poor fellow’s stomach does not kill him, the mortification of reliving that undignified exit may do the job.”

“Set all jesting aside, sire,” Aisley said, indignation infiltrating her mounting concern. “Your friend is obviously in dire straits.” She turned from anxiously watching the corner of the building to face him.

Deep brown eyes gazed down at her from beneath raised eyebrows. Instantly, a flood of memories assailed her. The courtyard outside her home in Trowbridge. The shouts of men preparing to leave for battle. A handsome thegn on horseback taking the bag of herbs she had so desperately wanted to give to her father. Aisley’s mouth went dry. The gentleman’s hair was shorter than it had been six years ago and a scar the length of her little finger now ran across his left cheekbone, but there could be no denying that she’d seen those expressive eyes before.

“Ealdorman Brecc.” The words came out in a rush, and she lowered her head to curtsy. When she raised it again, all hint of amusement was gone from his eyes. He stared at her as though trying to put together fractured pieces of those same memories, and despite the cold, a new and decidedly uncomfortable warmth flooded Aisley’s face. She had been only twelve years of age when they’d met. And even then, their interaction had been minimal. It had been forward of her to greet him as though they were acquainted. “Forgive me,” she said, attempting to quell her burgeoning discomfort. “You likely have no recollection of the time that was both our first and our last meeting.”

He issued a sharp intake of breath, his look of puzzlement disappearing. “It was at Trowbridge,” he said. “You are Ealdorman Kendryek’s daughter.”

“I am.” Why his mention of her father should cause a lump to form in her throat, she could not say. She attempted to swallow past it. “My name is—”

“Aisley.”

Shock drew her eyes back to his. “Yes.”