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Diera’s eyes widened. “Is it another battle with the Vikings?”

“Yes.”

The single word carried a heaviness that even a nine-year-old could feel. Diera’s chin quivered. “Where is Mother?”

“In her chamber, I imagine.” Aisley had not seen her mother since fleeing her father’s room.

Diera took off toward their mother’s chamber at a run. Aisley moved away from the window, her shoulders slumped. She was not sure which was harder: leaving to fight the bloodthirsty Vikings or being left at home to await news.

The fire crackled. Someone tossed another branch on the flames and sparks swirled heavenward. Brecc rose from his position on the ground beside the log where King Alfred sat. His thigh muscles ached, and he grimaced. At only twenty years of age, his body should not be complaining over so simple a movement, but after a hard day’s ride, Brecc doubted there was a man in the camp who was not feeling the effects of too long in the saddle or too many furlongs on his feet.

“If you would excuse me momentarily, Sire.” Brecc bowed to the king. “I believe I will take a walk before retiring for the night.”

“Most wise,” King Alfred said. “By Ormod’s calculations, we are over halfway to Wilton, but we have another long ride on the morrow if we are to head off the Vikings before they take the town.”

The prospect of another full day in the saddle was unpleasant, but Brecc had no cause to complain. All day long, farm laborers and yeomen had been leaving their fields to join the army of men marching toward Wilton on foot. Carrying nothing more than rudimentary weapons and a small sack of vittles, they had joined the ever-lengthening convoy. Even now, men were slipping into the field where the men were encamped, finding a place to rest among those who had already claimed a spot.

“I shall return shortly,” Brecc said.

King Alfred offered an approving nod and turned to his adviser, who was seated at his other side. “What think you, Ormod?”

“I beg your pardon, Sire?” Startled, Ormod turned his attention from the scrap of manuscript in his hand to the king. “You wished my opinion on a matter?”

“Yes.” The king rose. “On whether you would accompany me on a circuit around the camp.”

Brecc smothered a grin. Based on Ormod’s expression, the older gentleman would prefer to remain exactly where he was. But before Ormod could suggest that King Alfred take his walk with Brecc instead, Brecc slipped away.

There were hundreds of men gathered in the camp. Half a dozen fires burned, but none so large or so bright as the one at which the king sat, and there were surely men of lower standing who were positioned too far from the flames to experience any warmth. Brecc frowned. He hoped those brave souls had access to a blanket of some sort. Or at the very least, a warm cloak. His fingers went to the small bag tied at his waist, and he scanned the growing throng in the semidarkness. Kendryek was a thegn. He would not be too far distant from the king’s escorts, but if Brecc gauged the man’s character aright, neither would he wish to be too far removed from the men he had pulled from working the land to do the king’s bidding.

Moving past the inner circle of thegns, Brecc started toward the wagons carrying the Wiltshire men’s shields and spears. The temperature dropped as he stepped farther from the fires, and he looked upward. Like heavenly candles, a profusion of stars twinkled in the night sky. They would become brighter as the darkness deepened, and the cold would become more bone-chilling. As grateful as Brecc was that they were not having to contend with rain, cloud cover would have kept them all warmer.

He pulled his cloak more securely around himself and surveyed the clusters of men nearby. Most were conversing in small huddles, their voices low. A sense of determination hung in the air. Along with an underlying whisper of fear.

“I am seeking Kendryek, Ealdorman of Wiltshire,” Brecc said, approaching a large man with hands the size of frying pans.

The man pointed a stubby finger toward a small grove of trees. “He wus ’ere not long ago, but I reckon you’ll find ’im near th’ ash trees now. Needed t’ set ’imself down fer a bit, I’m thinkin’.”

If Kendryek was suffering from as much discomfort as his daughter had suggested, the laborer’s assessment was undoubtedly correct.

“I thank you,” Brecc said.

“You’ll likely find ’im with ’is son,” the local man added.

“Of course.” Brecc nodded politely and walked the short distance to the small copse.

At least a dozen men were seated beneath the trees, some of them leaning against the thick trunks. One sat slumped, his hood over his lowered head.

“Ealdorman Kendryek?” Brecc asked.

Immediately, the lowered head lifted, but it was the man beside that gentleman who rose.

“Who comes inquiring for Ealdorman Kendryek?” the man who stood asked.

“Ealdorman Brecc.”

The man bowed, and in the semidarkness, Brecc caught the glint of his pale-colored hair. The same color as his mother’s and youngest sister’s long tresses. This was Wulfhere.

“Forgive me, Ealdorman Brecc. I did not recognize you in the dark.”