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“Of course.” Ealdorman Brecc’s eyes flickered with something that looked suspiciously like humor. “I stand corrected.”

Aisley stiffened. She did not wish to be laughed at any more than she wished to be pitied for her small bone structure.

“I confess,” he continued. “I had not thought that one of Ealdorman Kendryek’s daughters would be in the courtyard at this hour. Let alone be in so great a hurry.”

The importance of her early-morning assignment flooded back. The unexpected chaos had waylaid her, but with the noisy preparation occurring in the courtyard, there could be no doubt that her father was awake. And she must reach him before he departed his bedchamber.

“I am fulfilling an errand for my mother,” she said. “If you will excuse me, I must go to my father immediately.”

At her words, a shutter fell across Ealdorman Brecc’s face, snuffing out any hint of humor or congeniality. “If you wish to speak with your father, I suggest that you find him forthwith. We shall be leaving within the half hour.”

We? Was the thegn referring to the visiting dignitaries only? Or had Wiltshire’s fyrd truly been called to arms? New voices reached her from the courtyard entrance, and with increased panic fluttering in her stomach, Aisley spotted two local landowners leading their mounts through the gate. Their presence was the only answer she needed. The local militia who rode with the ealdorman of the county to fight for the king were gathering. And they would all expect her father to ride at their head.

Scarcely remembering to offer Ealdorman Brecc an acknowledging nod, Aisley ran into the house. She crossed the great hall with hurried steps until she reached her father’s chamber. The door was open. Her mother stood within, her long, pale hair hanging loose against the blanket covering her shift.

“You cannot do this, Kendryek.” There was no mistaking Aisley’s mother’s desperation.

“Edla,” her father pled. “You must understand. I have no choice in the matter.”

“There is always a choice,” her mother said.

Aisley’s father stood beside his bed, his traveling cloak around his shoulders, the fingers of one hand tightly wrapped around the bedpost as though to keep him upright. Her mother stood before him. At her right, Wulfhere was dressed in his traveling clothes, and he held a large round shield and a spear.

“I accepted the ring-giver’s coins,” Aisley’s father said. “I am honor bound to do King Alfred’s bidding and to ride against the Vikings at the head of Wiltshire’s fyrd.”

The Vikings. In Aisley’s hand, the basket trembled. The bloodthirsty heathens had swept across Northumbria and Mercia, leaving death and pillage in their wake. Now they had their cold-blooded hearts set on adding Wessex to their conquests.

“You are ill,” her mother said. “The king will understand.”

“I can lead our men, Father,” Wulfhere said.

Her father shook his head. “I shall be glad to have you beside me on this journey, Wulfhere, but this is something I must do.”

“In your current condition, the journey alone may kill you.” Aisley’s mother’s voice broke.

“If it is God’s will that I die, who am I to question it?”

“But what if it is not His will.” Her mother stepped forward, her hands clenched. “What if He wishes you to stay here and rest that you might lead the people of Wiltshire uprightly for years to come?”

Aisley’s father lifted his free hand and ran it down her mother’s hair. “It is my understanding that our God is a majestic being of truth and honor, of virtue and light. Holy writ tell us that He wishes every person—no matter his or her circumstances—to emulate those qualities. If I am to be a man of truth and honor, I must do what I believe is right, regardless of the sacrifice it requires.”

Her mother’s lip trembled. “No. This is too much.”

“Wulfhere will be with me.”

“You would have me lose my husband and my son?” she cried.

“I am not ill, Mother,” Wulfhere said. “I do not intend to die.”

“So you say,” she countered. “But when the Vikings attack in a manic frenzy, you will have little control over who falls.”

Wulfhere’s jaw tightened. “I am as likely to kill ten Vikings as they are to injure me.”

Aisley did not wish to hear this talk of dying. Neither she did wish to listen to her parents contend with one another. She raised the basket in her hand and stepped into the room. “I have parsley and milk thistle for your tea, Father.”

Her mother and Wulfhere swung around, obviously startled by the interruption.

Aisley’s father released his hold on the bedpost, and with an ill-concealed flinch, he moved across the room toward her. “You picked these for me?” he asked, gesturing to the plants in the basket.