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The farmer’s wife opened her mouth, but only a squeak emerged.

Aisley reached for her hand beneath the cart and squeezed it. “How many would you like?” Aisley asked.

The Viking’s attention moved from the eggs to Aisley. Slowly, his gaze trailed down her long hair to her ill-fitting cloak to her shoes. A shudder coursed through her, bringing with it an overwhelming urge to flee. Without dropping his assessing look, the leader of the trio gave the young man who’d taken the fish a curt order. The younger Viking reached for the entire basket of eggs and set it in the crook of his arm.

“Rangvald,” the leader said, jabbing his broad chest with his thick thumb. Then he pointed to Aisley. “You?”

Mustering her courage, Aisley raised her chin and pointed to the basket of eggs. “You must pay for those.”

Something that looked remarkably like shock flickered across the Viking’s face, and then with a smug smile, he withdrew a coin purse from his belt. Swinging the purse over the cart with one hand, he pointed to her with the other. “You. Name.”

“Give ’im yer name,” Mistress Udela said. “Then mayhap ’e’ll pay me fer all them eggs.”

“He has no right to demand my name.”

“’E ’as no right to steal me eggs neither,” Mistress Udela retorted, her courage remarkably restored now that she was no longer the focus of the Viking’s attention.

The Viking moved closer, leaning so far over the cart that Aisley could smell his putrid breath. She took a stumbling step back. Her heel hit the wall of the smithy behind her. Her breath caught, and she pressed her hands against the stones.

“Rangvald,” he repeated, a wicked gleam in his eye. “You. Name.”

This was a game to him. A horrible, terrifying game.

“Aisley!” Mistress Udela cried, snatching the purse from the tall man’s hand. “’Er name’s Aisley.”

“Yer a greedy old woman, Udela!” Out of nowhere, the fishmonger appeared, and before Aisley could gather her wits, he was hurling fish from his cart at the Vikings. The three men roared their displeasure, and the one closest to the fishmonger lunged for his arm. But the fishmonger anticipated his move and tossed a fistful of minnows at his face. “Run fer it, Mistress Aisley,” he yelled. “I can only ’old ’em off fer so long.”

Aisley needed no second bidding. Before the Vikings knew what she was about, she rounded Mistress Udela’s cart and bolted across the eerily empty square. Another shout was followed by the sound of pounding feet. At least one of the Vikings had taken up the chase, and she knew full well that if it came down to a race, her short legs would be no match for the Vikings’ longer limbs. The maze of back alleys surrounding the square were known to disorient even the locals. Losing her pursuers there was her only hope.

Not daring to take the time to look over her shoulder, she veered left and entered an unfamiliar narrow lane. Stone buildings pressed in on her from both sides. Gasping for breath, she pressed on, desperately seeking another way out. The pounding footsteps had followed her, and they were closer. Up ahead, the lane bent to the right. If no other route manifested itself beyond the corner, her chance for escape was gone. She rounded the bend. The lane continued. Choking back a sob, she scoured the buildings. More running footsteps echoed off the stone walls, this time seemingly coming from the other direction.

A man burst into view ahead of her. She pivoted. On the left, there was an arched doorway, larger than the others on the lane. It might be wide enough to hide her but only if she reached it in time. She took off, but her toe caught a rock. She stumbled, and suddenly she was lifted off the ground.

“No!” she cried, flailing her legs wildly.

Instantly, a hand pressed against her mouth. “Make no sound, Aisley. The vermin are almost upon us.”

Shock stole her breath, and before she knew what he was about, her rescuer had carried her across the few remaining paces to the arched entrance. He had barely set her on her feet when those chasing her turned the corner. Aisley shifted sideways, pressing herself into the narrow corner behind the stones that formed the archway. Then panic struck. There was space enough for her small frame but nothing more. She looked up, searching the shadowy area for her rescuer, but he was gone. She closed her eyes. It had been Brecc. No matter his peasant clothing, she was sure of it.

CHAPTER 20

WITH NO PLACE THAT WOULD conceal him from the Vikings, Brecc took the only other option available to him: to hide in plain sight. Seizing the broom leaning against the wall beside the arched entrance, he turned his back on the oncoming men and began to sweep the doorstep next to the one where Aisley was hidden. Aisley. He tightened his grip on the broom handle. He’d barely reached her in time, and even now, she was not fully out of danger. But Rangvald would have to contend with considerably more than a handful of cold, wet fish if he attempted to lay a finger on her this time.

The Vikings’ voices, guttural and angry, drew closer. Brecc kept his head down. Rangvald operated within Guthrum’s inner circle and had participated in the attack at the royal estate. Brecc did not know if the chieftain could identify him, but he’d rather not take the chance. He sensed someone behind him. Tamping down his instinctive response to draw his knife, he kept sweeping. The Viking spoke. Brecc did not need to understand the words to recognize the mocking tone. Moments later, a leg jutted out from behind him and hit the broom. Despite his overwhelming desire to use his tight grip on the handle to swing it across his tormentor’s head, Brecc muttered a feigned exclamation and let the broom fall to the ground.

Laughter, cruel and callous, followed. And then an impatient shout sent the men running down the lane once more. Slowly, Brecc bent to retrieve the broom. He glanced over his shoulder. The lane was empty. Releasing a tense breath, he set the broom back against the wall, and after one more careful look around, he stepped into the archway.

Aisley’s frightened eyes looked up at him from the dark corner. Aching to pull her into his arms, he reached for her hand. It was cold.

“Forgive me,” he spoke softly. “I did not mean to treat you so roughly, but there was so little time, and I—”

“You came.”

Those two simple words had never conveyed so much nor cut so deeply. It had been close to two months since he’d made her that promise. It had been too long.

“Would that I could have come sooner. I have been with the king, and only yesterday was given the opportunity to come to Trowbridge.”

“How long will you be here?”