Page 45

“I did. He was at the small cottage beside the river, just as you said he would be.”

She nodded. “And will ’e take ya both t’ Athelney on ’is boat?”

“He will.” Brecc neglected to add that persuading Edris to leave his nets long enough to row two men across the river had taken significant negotiation since neither he nor the king had coins to offer the fisherman. In the end, it had been the promise of a leg of venison from Brecc’s first kill on the island that had swayed the fellow. It seemed that the fisherman was ready for a change from his usual fare of grayling or perch.

The woman grunted, reached for something in the tub at her feet, and then abruptly raised her head again. Sniffing the air, she tossed her husband’s wet tunic back into the container, and with a cry of consternation, she ran toward the door of the cottage.

Brecc did not hesitate. In a trice, he was off the horse. Crossing the distance between them in half a dozen long paces, he’d almost reached her when she threw open the door.

“Ya good-fer-nothin’ fellow!” she cried, racing inside and grabbing a small wooden utensil. “I allow ya t’ sleep beneath me roof, and this is ’ow ya repay me?”

The smell of burning wafted through the door. With mounting alarm, Brecc entered. King Alfred was sitting on a small stool in the corner of the room, staring at the swineherd’s wife with a stunned expression. The woman was furiously removing cakes of bread from the griddle above the fire and setting them onto a flat stone beside it. Each one was dark brown and ringed with black.

The king’s gaze moved from Hocca to the burned cakes, and he rose to his feet. “Forgive me.” He had never appeared so crestfallen. “I was so consumed in my thoughts, I did not notice—”

“’Ow could ya possibly not notice th’ smell of burnin’?” Hocca cried. “It’s so pungent, I smelt it from outside.” She shook her head furiously. “One job. I gave ya one job. Not an ’ard one, mind. Simply watch th’ cakes an’ call me when they’re ready.” She tossed her hands in the air as though it would rid her of her uninvited guests. “Well, there’ll be no bread for us this week. That was th’ last o’ me flour.”

“I am truly sorry.” It was a humble admission for the king of Wessex, but Brecc did not doubt his sincerity for a moment. “I shall ensure you are compensated for my inattentiveness.”

“And just ’ow do ya propose to do that?” Hocca was still fuming.

“We cannot offer you bread.” Brecc spoke from the doorway. “But I have promised Edris a leg of venison in exchange for transport to Athelney. I can offer you the same as payment for our lodging and the spoiled food.”

She swung to face him. “You would do that?”

“I would.”

She must have sensed his earnestness for she briefly bowed her head, her anger dissipating like the smoke from the burned cakes. “I thank you,” she said, meeting his eyes again. “Venison would be most welcome.”

“Consider it done,” Brecc said.

“And in the meantime,” the king added, “allow me to make up for my mistake by assisting you in some other way before we take our leave.”

Without another word, Hocca handed the king a broom. “By the time ya’ve swept the room, the smell of burnin’ should be gone.”

King Alfred stared at the simple contrivance in his hand. It was quite possibly the first time the monarch had ever held one.

“I would start brushing the floor in the farthest corner and gradually work toward the door,” Brecc suggested as casually as he dared.

“If ’e don’t already know that, yer friend is in dire need o’ far more than basic bakin’ instructions,” Hocca said, frowning at the charcoal remains of her bread.

“If the results of my pondering this morning are any indication, I fear that baking and sweeping are only a few of the many areas in which I must show improvement.” The king carried the broom to the corner and swished it haphazardly over the dirt floor. “I thank you, Mistress Hocca, for your patience as I learn.”

The swineherd’s wife sniffed and then wrinkled her nose at the lingering smell in the cottage. “Ya can set the broom against th’ wall when yer finished.”

Brecc stepped away from the door to allow her passage outside. “Good day, Mistress Hocca,” he said.

“Good day to ya both,” she replied. “I pray it improves fer each of us.”

CHAPTER 18

SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT. AISLEY GLANCED around the marketplace. She’d visited this square in Trowbridge at least a dozen times in the seven weeks since she’d returned from Chippenham, but this morning, there was a new energy. A buzzing of whispered words. The heavy fear that had infiltrated the country after word spread that the king was gone and the Vikings were roaming the land unchecked seemed to have lightened.

“What could possibly be so exciting at the fishmonger’s stall that Mistress Udela would leave her butter and eggs to join in the conversation?” Diera asked.

Aisley’s gaze moved from the farmer’s wife’s empty seat behind her cart to the fishmonger’s stall, where several of the locals had gathered. “I cannot say.”

“Nor can I,” Diera said. “But I should very much like to find out.”