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Brecc hesitated one moment more. Another thegn had taken on the approaching Viking. If Brecc stayed to fight, he might lessen the number of warriors by two or three, but that was nothing when compared to how many were undoubtedly involved in this attack. If he went with the king, he could feasibly facilitate the monarch’s escape before Guthrum realized that the man they had so brutally murdered was not in actuality the king of Wessex.

He backed toward the curtain, his eyes drawn to Ormod’s bloodied, lifeless body. The agony of loss burned in his chest. This defeat might be the most crushing yet, but it could not be the end of Saxon rule in Wessex. “You were the very best of men, Ormod,” he said. “You will not be forgotten.” And then he pulled back the curtain and followed after the king.

Aisley grabbed her sister’s arm and pulled her up against the wall of the kitchen, praying her mother would follow. Pounding footsteps approached in the darkness. She pressed herself against the cold stone as a glint of moonlight reflected off the blades in the hands of the approaching Vikings. Brecc had been right. The heathens who had entered the great hall were merely the vanguard. The entire royal estate was now swarming with the enemy.

She’d reached her mother and sister within moments of leaving the head table. Shaking them from their shock had been her first priority. Urging them to leave immediately had been her second. They’d been sitting close enough to the main doors that they’d been able to slip out before most of the guests had gathered their wits. But reaching safety was another matter entirely.

“We must go to the stables,” Aisley whispered, repeating Brecc’s admonition. “Attaining mounts is our only hope for escape.”

“Dressed like this, we shall freeze to death before we reach safety.” Her mother’s anxious voice reached her from the shadows.

“The stable has blankets.” How many or how distasteful they were, Aisley did not know, but with their cloaks still in the great hall, any covering they could acquire would be a godsend.

Shouts and screams coming from the great hall punctuated the frigid air. Shadowy figures flitted past, most of them running in unbridled panic. Those, she attempted to ignore. It was the silhouettes moving with heavy, purposeful strides that filled her with fear. And every moment that passed seemed to produce more of them. A clash of metal sounded from somewhere nearby. A string of unintelligible words was followed by pounding feet and a cry of agony. More shouts and more running. Beside her, Diera tensed, digging her fingers into Aisley’s arm. The fight in the great hall was expanding to include those outside.

Aisley could see the outline of the stable roof against the star-studded sky, but to reach it, they would be required to cross a wide-open space. “We must cross the square quickly,” she whispered.

“The Vikings will see us.” Diera’s words ended in a sob.

“If we remain here, we shall doubtless be found,” Aisley said. “I would rather take a chance at escaping.”

“What of Wulfhere?” their mother asked. “He will not know what has become of us.”

Aisley was quite sure that Wulfhere’s focus would be on securing his own safety. “I have no doubt he will leave for Wiltshire at the first opportunity. We shall meet him there.”

“But if he is injured, he will need our assistance.”

Aisley fought back her irritation. Ealdorman Ormod was dead. There were indubitably more dead and injured littering the floor of the great hall. Was Wulfhere truly her mother’s only concern? She swallowed the lump in her throat. Brecc had begged her to leave. It was what he had wanted. But if she thought on what was occurring in the building behind her, on what might already have happened to him . . . She pushed the thought away. He was protecting the king. God willing, he, too, would be protected.

“As you told me yourself, Mother, the king surely has healers he can call on.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hush!” Aisley stopped her mother’s argument midsentence. “Someone is coming.” They waited, barely daring to breathe as the thud of more heavy footsteps came closer. A man’s voice called out something in Norse, and the direction of the footsteps changed. Aisley waited only until the thuds faded behind them, then she moved away from the wall. “Now,” she whispered. “We go now!”

They crossed the open area at a run. The icy air cut through Aisley’s clothing, numbing her skin.

Diera faltered. “I cannot. It is too far in this cold.”

“You can and you must.” Aisley could now see the stable door. “We are almost there.”

As they approached, the sizable door swung open, and a large silhouette slipped inside.

“Vikings!” Diera gasped, stumbling to a halt.

“No.” Their mother tugged her forward. “He did not move like an invader.”

It was true. Despite their good start, it seemed that they were not the first of the king’s guests to reach the stables.

Aisley grabbed the door latch and pulled. “I pray the stablehands are ready for the number of people who will undoubtedly come.”

A male voice, low and urgent, echoed through the stables. “Make haste, boy! I have no time to waste.”

A stableboy entered the circle of candlelight, drawing a large horse behind him. “I’ll ’ave ’im saddled right away, sire.”

The man stepped out of the shadows. “This is taking too long,” he said. “Give me the saddle. You take care of the bridle.”

“Wulfhere!” Aisley’s mother gasped.