Page 55

Rheged glanced at him. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.” Brecc did not bother asking how he knew. They understood each other too well for that. “But I’ll manage.”

The crack of branches and angry shouts were becoming louder. Their pursuers were dangerously close. Brecc placed the foot of his uninjured leg in the stirrup and prepared to swing himself up. They were two days’ ride from Athelney, which meant he was in for a torturous journey. But it was a better option than walking or being captured by the Vikings.

Rheged hurried over to his mount and was in the saddle before Brecc had finished breathing through the agony of lifting his wounded leg over the horse’s back.

“To the miller’s straightway,” Brecc called. “Once the delivery is made, we ride for Athelney.”

Aisley poured the last of the dried chickweed into the crock on the wooden table. With April less than a fortnight away, new plants would be making their appearance in the hedgerows again. She needed to gather more and hang them to dry before her current supply dwindled to nothing. She frowned. It wasn’t only the chickweed crock running low. Almost all her containers of dried medicinal plants needed to be replenished.

It was the same at the end of every winter, but this time, restocking her supplies was proving to be more challenging. Over the last fortnight, the Vikings had gone from keeping to themselves at their encampment by the river to loitering in the town, stealing from the merchants, and threatening anyone who did not do exactly as they said. Aisley’s fear that Rangvald would find her again had yet to fully abate. He knew her name, and anyone in town could tell him where she lived. Since her return with Taber over three weeks before, she’d not dared go any farther from the longhouse than the stables and the cold storage room off the kitchen.

She’d felt the loss of Brecc’s presence the moment she and Taber had entered the courtyard that day. It had left a void that no amount of distractions had fully removed. She thought on him daily—wondering where he was and what he was doing—but her own world had become very narrow.

With a sigh, she sealed the crock and set it beside the others. A small pile of linen bags lay beside them. Her newly required time indoors had forced her to take up a needle more than ever before, and creating little sacks for transporting the dried plants had seemed a more productive use of her time than embroidering linens. Over the last few days, however, she had accumulated so many of them, it might be time to contrive a new project. Brushing the lingering flakes of chickweed off her fingers, she moved to the door. The sun was reaching its zenith; she had been away from the longhouse all morning.

Voices reached her from outside. Curious, she tilted her head to better hear. One speaker was most certainly Wulfhere. The other was a man, but his voice was more indistinct. Lifting the latch, she pulled open the door just wide enough to see across the courtyard. Wulfhere was facing her, speaking to a broad-shouldered man wearing a sheepskin. His brown hair hung long and limp down his back, but it did not need to be in plaits for Aisley to recognize him. Her fingers froze on the doorlatch. What was Rangvald doing here? And why had Wulfhere not sent him away?

Wulfhere laughed, and the Viking joined in. The sound sent a shudder down Aisley’s spine. This was not the interaction expected of men from opposing forces. Pressing her shoulder against the wall, she leaned forward to peer around the doorjamb. Another Viking stood waiting near the stables, holding the straps of two horses. He shifted his feet as though he’d been standing there for some time. How long had Rangvald been here? Had he been invited into the longhouse? The questions swirled through her head in a never-ending eddy, leaving her feeling more and more nauseated.

At last, Wulfhere slapped Rangvald on the back, and the men grasped each other’s hands in an unmistakable sign of solidarity. The language barrier between them, it seemed, had been successfully crossed. Rangvald left Wulfhere’s side and walked briskly to his waiting horse. With a brief word to his companion, they both mounted.

“Two,” Rangvald said, holding up two fingers. “Two days.”

“Aye.” Wulfhere acknowledged the directive with a nod. “Return then.”

Return? Horror clawed at Aisley’s throat. Not only had Wulfhere received the Viking warmly, but he had also invited him back. She leaned against the wall, attempting to calm her racing thoughts. She did not know what Wulfhere was about, but she meant to find out. And the best place to start was with their mother.

She waited until the sound of hooves had faded and then peeked outside again. The courtyard was empty. Slipping out of the cold storage room, she closed the door behind her and ran directly to the longhouse. In the great hall, two chairs were positioned beside the fire, and a couple of goblets sat on a nearby table. No one was in the room, but the evidence of recent occupancy was clear.

Crossing the great hall, Aisley made for her mother’s chamber. The door was ajar, so she knocked once and then pushed it open. Her mother was sitting beside the fire, a new needlework project upon her lap. Across from her, Diera was sewing something that looked suspiciously like yet another gown.

“Good day, Mother,” Aisley said.

“Aisley! Where have you been this entire morning?”

“I was in the cold storage room.” Her response should not have been a surprise, especially now.

“Then you’d best come in and warm up,” her mother said. “I cannot imagine what kept you there so long.”

Her desire to avoid any type of needlework would not be a welcomed response, so Aisley opted to change the subject. “There was a Viking in the courtyard.”

“So, I believe.” Her mother picked up her needle and kept her eyes on her fabric.

Aisley stared at her. “He was talking to Wulfhere. Congenially. As if they were friends.”

“Mayhap they have found common ground.”

“Common ground?” Aisley fought to maintain her composure. “Have you so soon forgotten what the Vikings did at the royal estate? What they are now doing across Wessex?”

Her mother released an exasperated sigh. “We left the royal estate far too quickly to know exactly what occurred there. Hearsay is always exaggerated.”

“Thegns died! Ealdorman Ormod was murdered before we left the great hall. There is nothing hearsay about that.”

There was another rap on the door, and Wulfhere walked in. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Aisley said. “As a matter of fact, I am very glad you are come. Mayhap you would be willing to explain to me—since mother appears unable to do so—why you were speaking so amiably to a Viking chieftain in the courtyard and even went as far as to invite him back to our home.”