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Taber nodded. “I’ll ’ave ’er ready fer ya.”

The stable door creaked. Voices accompanied the shaft of light that entered. Aisley wadded up Taber’s bundle and stuffed it under her arm.

“We’ll unload th’ cart ’ere.” It was Tilian giving Garren instructions.

Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Aisley moved toward the doors.

Tilian saw her for the first time and offered a startled bow. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mistress Aisley. I didn’t know ya were ’ere.”

“Do not let me interrupt you,” she said, angling her way through the door so that the bundle remained out of his line of sight. “I am just leaving.”

He gave her a vague nod. “Very good, mistress.” It seemed that one benefit of having frequented the stables often was that her unexpected appearance was no real cause for inquiry.

A cart full of hay was parked outside the stables. Garren was approaching it, pitchfork in hand. With no one else in view, Aisley crossed the short distance to the cold storage room. Once inside, she pushed a stool up against the door. It would not prevent anyone from entering, but it would give her a little extra warning if she needed it. Ensuring that the shutters were firmly closed, she lit a candle and set it on the wooden counter before looking around. She needed somewhere to hide Taber’s clothes.

There was a barrel near the door that appeared to be empty. She tipped it upside down, and a few dead apple leaves fell to the floor. Cook must have used the last of the fruit from this barrel for the baked apples she’d served last week. Setting Taber’s clothes at the bottom of the barrel, she scoured the room. Cook would not have emptied a barrel this early in the year unless there were more apples stored elsewhere.

Large sealed crocks of pickled vegetables lined one wall. Pieces of dried, smoked pork hung from hooks on the ceiling above. Two more barrels sat in the corner. She crossed to them. One contained a mixture of carrots and onions. The other was full of apples. With a satisfied smile, she loaded her skirt with about a dozen, carried them over to the barrel containing Taber’s clothes, and poured them on top. Another half dozen apples, and the fabric was completely covered. Moving over to the counter, she set out a row of the small linen bags she’d made only last week. If she was to be turned out of her own home, she was taking her medicinal plants with her.

She was filling her third bag when the door latch rose and the stool legs scraped across the floor. Her fingers froze around the string as she watched the stool slowly move forward and the door open. Her mother walked in, her glare instantly shifting from the stool to Aisley.

“Whatever are you doing in here? You have been gone from the house for an age. And why is the stool against the door?”

“I am bagging up some of the herbs,” she said, choosing to ignore the second question while working to keep her voice even. “I have cried enough for one day and needed an activity to keep my thoughts on something other than my forced marriage to a pillaging Viking.”

Her mother’s indignation deflated a fraction, and her gaze shifted to Aisley’s eyes. Aisley had no need of a looking glass to know they were red and puffy. They stung every time she blinked. She was fortunate that the light had been so poor in the stables that Taber and Tilian had not seemed to notice.

“Your future husband is a chieftain. You will want for nothing.”

In truth, she would want for everything, but she was not willing to reenter this futile discussion. She raised the half-filled pouch in her hand. “When I leave, I should like to take some of my dried plants with me.”

“Of course.” Her mother glanced at the tidy row of crocks and released a troubled breath. “I would have you know that regardless of what you may currently believe, Aisley, you will be missed.”

It was possible that her mother would wish Aisley there on the days she was forced to resume her own gathering and drying of plants. Or when Diera demanded that someone must accompany her into town. But those trifling reasons were hardly enough to make Aisley feel valued or loved. And she would rather not prolong this conversation only to learn for a certainty that her mother’s genuine affection for her oldest daughter was unreservedly lacking. The time had come to protect herself from further emotional harm.

“I shall not be eating with you this evening,” she said, unsure which was the most repellent: the thought of consuming food or the thought of being in the same room as Wulfhere. “When I am finished here, I shall retire for the night.”

Her mother frowned. “I do not think that is wise. It would not do to leave here in a weakened state.”

Regardless of the consequences, partaking of a meal with her family was an impossibility. “I shall have plenty of rest, at least.”

“Hm.” Her mother appeared unconvinced. “I shall check on you later this evening.”

“Very well.”

Returning her attention to the small bag in her hand, Aisley drew the string around the top and tied it tight.

Her mother watched while she set the filled pouch on the counter, and then she opened the door and stepped outside. “Good night, Aisley,” she said.

Aisley waited until the door closed behind her. “Good night, Mother,” she said sadly. It was likely the last time she would ever say it.

Brecc leaned his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. The pain in his leg was worsening. Not surprising given how long they’d been riding, but it did not omen well for his night’s rest. Exhausted or not, unless the discomfort subsided, he would be hard-pressed to sleep at all.

“Here!”

Brecc opened one eye.

Rheged stood over him, a piece of bread and a small chunk of cheese in his extended hand. “You must eat.”