The soundof the horns rolled out of the woods, low and ugly enough that every man on the rise stopped what he was doing, except for him.
“Godwin, with me. Osric, keep the men here, and no one follows unless I call for them.”
He was already moving before he’d finished speaking, sword in one hand and his dark cloak snapping behind him as he strode down the slope toward the village, which meant I had to gather up my skirts and hurry if I wanted to keep up with him.
“Stay here.”
“No. You’ve known me long enough to understand how well telling me that works.”
“It has been four days.”
“Exactly. We shouldn’t still be having this conversation.”
His mouth flattened in the expression I was beginning to recognize as Wulfric forI am surrounded by fools, which was likely useful for a Saxon lord and, now that I thought about it, would have suited several watch managers I’d known over the years.
We reached the southern edge of Ashford just as two scouts emerged from the trees, bows in hand and wet leaves clinging to their woolen cloaks. Neither looked particularly alarmed, which helped, though not enough to slow my pulse until the older man, Eadric, bent forward with his hands on his knees and began speaking.
“Riders, my lord. Across the stream.”
“How many?”
“Eight. Mayhap ten.”
“Did they cross?”
“Nay. Watched the road, then turned south again.”
Wulfric asked what they wore, which horses they rode, whether they carried banners, and how long they had remained near the stream. I understood perhaps half of why the answers mattered, but that was fine because, unlike every man I’d ever met who believed watching three documentaries made him an expert, I knew what I didn’t know.
War was Wulfric’s world while I dealt with what happened when carefully laid plans caught fire.
By the time Eadric accepted a cup from Anya and took his first long drink, Wulfric was already walking back toward the rise.
“You’re going up there again?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“To do what?”
“Prepare.”
“For ten men?”
“For those who may follow them.”
Ten armed riders might be ten armed riders, or they might be the first sign of something much larger moving through the woods, and judging by the way his shoulders had gone still beneath his cloak, he had no intention of assuming the kinder possibility.
He looked as tired as I felt. “You haven’t eaten.”
“Neither have you.”
Before I could answer, Hild appeared from beside a cottage and thrust two oat cakes into my hand, though calling it a cake was a triumph of medieval optimism. It was round, dry, and solid enough that I could probably have used it to defend Ashford if the Normans arrived before supper.
“For each of you,” Hild said with a nod in Wulfric’s direction.
There are moments when women understand one another perfectly across every possible divide of century, rank, and questionable baked goods. I caught up with him halfway up the hill and held out the other oat cake.
“Eat.”