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“I am no priest or holy man, Aisley. It is hard to believe that God would send a message to me when He could choose someone of far greater influence.”
“My father was no priest either,” she said. “And I most certainly am not. Yet there have been times when I have felt prompted to offer particular herbs to someone who is ailing, without any understanding of why the herbs might help. My father’s counsel has caused me to wonder if those feelings might come from a divine source.”
Brecc’s thoughts reeled. Surely Aisley’s suggestion was unreasonable. Some men of the cloth might even consider the notion that God would communicate with a lowly girl, a father, or a warrior to be an offense against heaven. And yet, regardless of the startling nature of the concept, it did not feel blasphemous to Brecc.
His free hand rose, his finger feeling for the scar that ran across his cheek. Why had he turned at the precise moment the Viking warrior had aimed his blade at Brecc’s throat? He’d not heard the heathen’s approach above the horrific sounds of the battlefield, and he’d barely caught his breath from dispatching one of the Viking’s comrades, but the impression to step aside had been strong enough that he had acted upon it. His face was forever scarred, but his life had been spared.
“Even if what you say is true,” Brecc said, “why would God choose me? King Alfred is a pious man. He spends hours with the priest, speaking with God each day. He is fully committed to doing God’s will. He would be a far better conduit for a heavenly message.”
Aisley’s faint smile hinted that she had pondered similar questions. “Do you recall hearing the priests tell the story of David and Saul or Esther and the Persian King? It seems to me that God has already established a pattern of communicating with those who might righteously influence a ruler.” She paused. “Have you spoken of your concerns to King Alfred?”
“I have. He listened, but he believes that Guthrum will honor his oath.” Brecc gave a troubled sigh. “It is what King Alfred would do, and as a man of his word, it is difficult for him to conceive of a leader doing otherwise.”
“Guthrum is not guided by the same morals.”
“No,” Brecc said grimly. “He is not.”
They passed the entrance to the estate. The gates were open, and Brecc could see the glisten of the River Avon in the distance, through the trees. In less than twenty-four hours, the thegns would leave this place for their respective homes. The king and his retinue would relocate soon after. Mayhap the Viking threat would come then, when the leadership of Wessex was scattered. Brecc wished he had a better understanding of the Viking chieftain’s way of thinking.
“No matter what lies ahead for Wessex,” Aisley said, “the king will benefit from having you so keenly alert to the Viking threat.”
Her words were kindly meant but did little to lessen Brecc’s underlying frustration. For the best part of a fortnight, he’d felt more helpless than helpful. He was ready to have the Twelfth Night celebrations behind them and some normalcy restored.
“Will you return to Trowbridge on the morrow?”
“I believe that is what my brother has planned, although my mother and sister refuse to speak of anything but the Twelfth Night banquet, so I do not know the details of our departure.”
Brecc did not especially wish to consider the details of Aisley’s departure either. He had come to know her uncommonly well in a few short days, and he would miss her.
The thought startled him with its intensity and truth.
“I will go with the king, but I have yet to learn his plans for our removal from here.” He glanced at her. “Mayhap I could persuade him that a visit to Trowbridge would not go amiss.”
The warmth of her smile lit a fire in his chest. “You would be most welcome.”
They had reached the large oak. He drew her off the path and under the tree’s protective limbs. She looked up at him, her beautiful green eyes capturing his. Dear heaven, how had she come to have such influence over him in so short a time?
“I shall do everything in my power to visit you there soon.” He raised his hand to brush some hair from her face. The strands ran softly through his fingers.
She nodded, but the enthusiasm he had hoped for was missing. “I pray it will not be too late.”
He lowered his hand. “Forgive me. Have I misstepped?”
She looked away. “Not at all.”
“Aisley?” Gently, he touched her jaw, guiding her eyes back to his. “Tell me what is troubling you.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “Wulfhere informed me yesterday that he intends to find wealthy suitors for me and Diera forthwith. He wishes to use our marriages as a means of filling his coffers.”
Her words were like a physical punch to the stomach. Did Wulfhere truly see his sisters as nothing more than property to be bought and sold?
Brecc had the ear of the king and a valuable parcel of land on the southern coast, but he had no hidden stash of gold. Upon his father’s death, Brecc had been left sufficient funds for his needs; amassing a fortune had never been his focus. Truth be told, up until three days ago, he had not given more than a fleeting thought to providing for a wife and family sometime in his distant future. At twenty-seven years of age, he was still young, and his life was devoted to defending the crown, which left little room for anything—or anyone—else. Even now, he was not sure that he was ready for marriage. He simply knew that the thought of Aisley married to another made him want to beat Rheged in a sword fight even more handily than he had the last time.
“Wulfhere cannot do that.” Even as Brecc spoke the words, he knew they were false. The ealdorman was fully within his rights to arrange marriages for his sisters.
“He can, and he will.” She swallowed, and the hurt in her eyes was almost Brecc’s undoing. “So, if you do intend to come to Trowbridge, I would ask that you not delay your visit too long.”
“I shall come,” he promised.
