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Aisley furrowed her brow. “Is that not a good thing?”

Her mother reached for the bunch of thyme in Aisley’s hand, the lines cutting through her pursed lips deepening. “It depends upon whom you ask.”

CHAPTER 4

THEY WERE OUTNUMBERED. BRECC EYED the men lining the ridge above them grimly. Too many to count, and there was no telling how many bloodthirsty Vikings lay waiting in the ranks beyond his vision. Tightening his grip on the handle mounted beneath his shield boss, he pressed his shoulder against Arthw’s at his right. The gentleman grunted his approval. The closer the warriors stood to each other, the better. Their overlapping shields formed a formidable barrier, but all it would take was one weak link—one man to fall or to abandon his comrades—and the blockade’s effectiveness would be compromised.

“Looks to be a large gathering of chieftains,” Arthw muttered. “I’d wager this battle is one they aim to win.”

Brecc nodded. The chieftains’ metal helmets glistened in the early-morning light, and though they were not yet close enough for him to identify the extravagantly molded face guards, he knew the intimidating headgear’s purpose. The chieftains’ warlike appearance was meant to engender fear in their foes—as were their howling battle cries. The Vikings’ similarity to a pack of ravenous wolves was all too real.

From somewhere on the hilltop, a blood-curdling cry rent the air, and suddenly, the Vikings were racing toward them, swords and spears raised as they poured down the hill in a torrent of fearsome shouts.

“Hold your positions!” At King Alfred’s shout, the men at the front of the shield wall tensed. “With trust in God’s strength and mercy, victory shall be ours!”

“We fight for Wessex!” The shout came from somewhere in the midst of the nearly four thousand men who were standing in tightly packed rows behind Brecc.

The call was immediately picked up by others. “For Wessex!”

Keeping his eyes on the hillside, Arthw shifted slightly. “And so it begins.”

The Vikings were close enough now that Brecc could identify which were armed with swords and which were wielding axes. A horn sounded, and an instant later, the sky filled with spears arching over the grassland toward them. The response was instant. A single shout, and more spears took to the sky, this time directed toward the Vikings.

Brecc raised his sword. The Saxon counteroffensive had begun.

Cries of agony mingled with shouts of fury. All around, the clash of metal hitting metal and the thud of spears penetrating wooden shields reverberated down the Saxons’ line of defense.

Brecc lunged at the nearest Viking, the tip of his blade catching the man’s thick leather garment on his arm. The heathen swung his raised ax toward Brecc, but Brecc countered the attack with a blow that knocked the man to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Brecc spotted another volley of incoming spears. “Forward,” he yelled.

As one, the front line surged up the hill. Two, three, four steps. It was all that was necessary. The spear that should have hit his shoulder sailed past Brecc’s ear, missing him by a fraction. Arthw cursed as a spear penetrated the soil at his feet. They both knew that if one of them fell and a fresh warrior did not step forward to fill the gap immediately, the floodgates would open, and there would be no holding back the Vikings then.

“The shield wall is holding.” Arthw grunted, lowering his head as yet another spear sliced through the air between them.

Behind Brecc, a man shrieked. The sound sent chills down Brecc’s spine. Such a gut-wrenching sound did not accompany a superficial flesh wound. The man at Brecc’s right stumbled, his shield shifting against Brecc’s. With a roar, three Vikings attacked, wielding their spears with deadly precision. Brecc’s neighbor cried out, his knees buckling. The moment the man’s shield dropped, another Saxon warrior pushed forward, stepping over his comrade to press his shield against Brecc’s.

“Stay the course! We have them.” It was Ormod’s voice.

Already, the field was littered with fallen men. The clatter of metal attested to the ongoing battles along the Saxon shield wall, but many of the Vikings had dropped back. For the first time since their initial war cry had rent the air, the Saxons’ adversaries were unsure. Brecc turned his head. Determination shone in every Saxon’s eyes. Despite the unlikely odds, victory was within reach.

Another shout. This one closer. Brecc ducked as an airborne spear whistled past him. Beside him, Arthw gasped. A hiss of pain followed. Brecc swiveled. The spear had partially entered his comrade’s arm. The wooden shaft wavered before toppling to the ground, drawing the spear’s tip out of Arthw’s forearm as it fell.

Brecc kicked the spear aside. Someone else could use it against their enemy. “How bad is it?”

“’Tis nothing.” Arthw was speaking through clenched teeth. “It caught the edge of my byrnie.”

“Call another man up,” Brecc urged.

Arthw kept his eyes forward, his jaw tight. “There’s no need. The heathens are retreating.”

It was true. The spear that had pierced Arthw’s arm must have been one of the last to fly. The Vikings were running toward the ridge, leaving their dead and wounded behind. A cheer erupted. From the Saxon army’s rear, farmers and laborers began running onto the battlefield, carrying their pitchforks and scythes aloft.

“It is too early for jubilation,” Arthw said grimly. “The Vikings may have withdrawn, but they are not gone.”

Bodies, bleeding and broken, lay scattered across the slope. Brecc swallowed the bile in his throat. Did the Viking chieftains ever consider the price their greed exacted? Many of the casualties were Saxons, most certainly, but there were numerous Vikings among the dead, and those who were injured might yet die of their wounds. Brecc glanced at Arthw. His companion’s face was pale, but he remained upright, holding his shield in place.

“Your wound. How bad is it?” Brecc repeated.

“Not so bad that you’ll be claiming my purse,” he said.