Page 61

They’d been traveling for several furlongs when the merchant’s vehement mutter broke the silence that had descended over the company.

“Curse those heathen invaders!”

The rhythmic gait of Aisley’s mount had lulled her into an alarmingly dozy state. Now, however, her heart was racing. “What is it?”

“Vikin’s,” he growled. “Comin’ ’round the bend. Ya’d best be hopin’ yer not carryin’ anythin’ they want.”

Aisley pressed her hand against her satchel. Her coin purse had little enough in it, and she couldn’t imagine the Vikings would want her dried plants. But the gown. She swallowed against her fear. If they found the gown, would they question her? Worse, would they force her to pull back her hood?

“I do not wish t’ speak t’ them,” she said.

“None of us do. Believe me, every merchant I know’s prayin’ King Alfred’ll put an end t’ this soon. A nightmare, it is. A livin’ nightmare. We never know if we’re goin’ t’ reach market with anythin’ left t’ sell.”

A shout rang out, and the merchant at the head of their short caravan reined his cart to a halt. Each of the other drivers followed suit. Aisley kept her head down, the pounding of her heart keeping time with the clopping of hooves as the Vikings circled the merchants’ carts. Surely it could not be Rangvald and his men. If he was planning to return to the longhouse early on the morrow, he would not be this far from Trowbridge today.

A Viking spoke. He was close by. Moments later, the cloth covering the merchant’s cart beside her was ripped back. Aisley did not turn to look, but if the exuberant shouts were any indication, the invaders were pleased with what they’d uncovered.

“That don’t belong t’ ya.” Frustration filled the merchant’s voice.

Another horse drew up beside Aisley’s. She fought her panic.

“This!” A hand reached out and tugged on her satchel.

The strap cut into Aisley’s neck, but she did not relinquish the bag. Without meeting the Viking’s face, she slid her hand under the leather flap and pulled out an apple. She held it out. His exclamation was likely a curse. He knocked the fruit from Aisley’s outstretched hand, and it rolled under the cart ahead of her.

The Viking at the cart called out something, and with a grunt of annoyance, the one beside Aisley guided his horse in that direction. She forced herself to take a breath. And then another. At the cart, thuds indicated merchandise was being moved. Aisley hazarded a glance at the merchant. He remained on his seat, his expression stony. Another shout, this one from one of the Vikings at the head of the caravan. The clatter of hooves mingled with guttural voices, and then they were moving away.

No one in the merchant caravan moved. Aisley’s horse’s ears twitched, and then as if desiring to rid itself of the Vikings’ undesirable presence, it shook its head and snorted. With a curse, the merchant climbed down from his perch. Aisley dared raise her head. The Vikings were already out of sight, and her new friend was studying the contents of his cart with a grim expression.

“Thievin’ barbarians,” he said.

Fabric of every color lay in untidy heaps in the center of the cart. The merchant climbed up and began sifting through the material, folding each piece into a tight parcel with efficiency that spoke of years of experience. Aisley slid from her saddle and walked to the end of the cart. The cloth that had once covered the fabric was on the ground, so she picked it up.

“’Ow much did ya lose, Benwick?” The vegetable merchant had moved from assessing his cart to stand beside the fabric merchant’s.

“Me best linen and three bolts of finely woven wool.” He set down the newly folded bundles. “What about yer produce?”

“Two sacks gone.”

The fabric merchant grimaced. “It’s a good job they didn’t decide t’ take one o’ our carts or they’d ’ave left with much more.”

“Aye.” Glaring down the road the way the Vikings had gone, the vegetable merchant rubbed his chin. “They must’ve needed t’ be elsewhere in a ’urry. It’s small consolation fer all we’ve lost, but it could’ve been worse.”

So much worse. Aisley rolled her shoulders, attempting to work out the strain that had settled there. “I am truly sorry,” she said, handing the merchant his cover.

“Not yer fault, lad.” He took the proffered cloth and set it over the top of the other fabric. “But I think we’ll all be glad t’ get t’ Shepton Mallet.”

Aisley nodded. Now that she was out of the saddle, she had no desire to return to it. But she must. And since she had a far longer journey ahead than did these merchants, the sooner they set off again, the better.

It was early afternoon when Aisley bid farewell to the merchants, and she found that she was remarkably reluctant to do so. In the short time that they’d traveled together, she’d come to think of them as friends, and their encounter with the Vikings had only enhanced that sense of camaraderie.

“If ya change yer mind,” the fabric merchant said, “come back. We’ll be ’ere till the end of th’ week, an’ Orvyn can alwus use ’elp haulin’ ’is swedes an’ turnips.”

Orvyn, who was unloading his cart one heavy sack at a time, grunted his agreement, and although Aisley rode away alone, she left Shepton Mallet feeling less abandoned than she had when she’d been in her own bed at the longhouse.

On the outskirts of town, she came upon an elderly woman sweeping the steps of a small cottage. Aisley needed directions, and to ask them of a woman who had likely lived in the area for some time seemed sensible. “Beggin’ yer pardon,” she called. “Can ya tell me th’ way to Athelney?”

The woman stopped her sweeping and looked at Aisley curiously. “Whatever would ya want t’ go there for? There’s nothin’ but a parcel of land risin’ up out of the swamp. Can’t even get t’ it without a boat.”