and, before she could draw a third breath, she was asleep.
Wakefulness came upon her too soon. The room was still dark. She could hear no menâs voices, no creaking of floorboards as people moved about. Her body told her it was after midnight, but still long before dawn. She closed her eyes tightly, but she knew she was defeated. She was weary, so weary, and yet sleep resisted her. So all that was left was to wait in the dark.
But how could she bear to be still, lying awake in an inn, barely five hoursâ ride from her dying father? Especially when she suspected they had enemies on the move towards them. The raven-branded raiders had unsettled her. Rumours were everywhere that the Crow King was still alive. If word got back to him that her father was weak, that her country was weak ...
Bluebell slipped from her bed â every muscle ached â and pulled on her cloak. She scooped up her pack and cracked open the door. Downstairs, low firelight moved across the walls. Wylm would be down there somewhere, stretched out on a deerskin, sleeping too hard. She wouldnât wake him. Let him realise in the morning she had gone ahead. This way, she could speak to his wretched mother when he wasnât present to defend the woman.
Bluebell crept from the alehouse and out into the cool, dark morning. The stable door creaked open and she approached Isernâs stall. He had sensed her and his eyes were open. He walked up to the gate and pressed his nose into her hand. Bluebellâs gut clenched. He looked tired and old, and suddenly she couldnât bear to make him go out on the road again in the dark. For the first time since sheâd had the news about her father, her throat blocked up as though tears might be on their way.
âMy lord?â
Bluebell turned to see Harald approaching. She cleared her throat roughly. âHarald?â
âI heard you come in. I sleep in the loft.â He indicated Isern. âDonât make him go out.â
âI wonât,â she said. âI wonât.â
âI can give you a fresh horse, and Iâll bring Isern down to you in a few days.â
Words wouldnât make their way into her mouth.
âMy lord?â
âYes,â she said, hoarsely, âthat would suit me well.â
He eyed her in the dark. âYou need to get home quickly?â
âI do.â
âKing Ãthlric is a good king. You will be, too. May it be a long time before that comes to pass, though.â
Bluebell patted his shoulder warmly. âWe are of one mind, Harald.â
Within half an hour, she was back on the road with her dogs, leaving Wylm sleeping like a small, pampered child.
The sour smell of ash and the cool chill of morning. Wylm prickled awake. His shoulder was sore from sleeping on it too hard. He rolled over and opened his eyes. Dawn glimmered through the cracks around the shutters. Next to him, a fat dog slept, snoring lightly. Wylm was still tired, could easily have slept longer. But he wanted to be awake when Bluebell came down. He climbed to his feet and rolled up his pack, setting it by the door of the alehouse. A large bowl of porridge was hanging over the cooking pit, so he fished a bent silver coin out of his pocket to pay for a serving.
The sun was up, the shutters of the alehouse open, and Bluebell wasnât awake yet. This was wonderful. She had relished him sleeping through the thiefâs approach the previous night; perhaps he should find a disgruntled hunter to creep into her room and put his fingers under her blanket.
He wouldnât do it himself though. He valued having a hand attached to each arm.
Wylm finished off the porridge and went outside to sit in the weak morning sun on a carved wooden bench. A strong smell of damp earth filled the air. He spent the time sharpening his blade and watching the town come awake for the day. The door of the alehouse creaked open and he looked up, expecting Bluebell. He
Wakefulness came upon her too soon. The room was still dark. She could hear no menâs voices, no creaking of floorboards as people moved about. Her body told her it was after midnight, but still long before dawn. She closed her eyes tightly, but she knew she was defeated. She was weary, so weary, and yet sleep resisted her. So all that was left was to wait in the dark.
But how could she bear to be still, lying awake in an inn, barely five hoursâ ride from her dying father? Especially when she suspected they had enemies on the move towards them. The raven-branded raiders had unsettled her. Rumours were everywhere that the Crow King was still alive. If word got back to him that her father was weak, that her country was weak ...
Bluebell slipped from her bed â every muscle ached â and pulled on her cloak. She scooped up her pack and cracked open the door. Downstairs, low firelight moved across the walls. Wylm would be down there somewhere, stretched out on a deerskin, sleeping too hard. She wouldnât wake him. Let him realise in the morning she had gone ahead. This way, she could speak to his wretched mother when he wasnât present to defend the woman.
Bluebell crept from the alehouse and out into the cool, dark morning. The stable door creaked open and she approached Isernâs stall. He had sensed her and his eyes were open. He walked up to the gate and pressed his nose into her hand. Bluebellâs gut clenched. He looked tired and old, and suddenly she couldnât bear to make him go out on the road again in the dark. For the first time since sheâd had the news about her father, her throat blocked up as though tears might be on their way.
âMy lord?â
Bluebell turned to see Harald approaching. She cleared her throat roughly. âHarald?â
âI heard you come in. I sleep in the loft.â He indicated Isern. âDonât make him go out.â
âI wonât,â she said. âI wonât.â
âI can give you a fresh horse, and Iâll bring Isern down to you in a few days.â
Words wouldnât make their way into her mouth.
âMy lord?â
âYes,â she said, hoarsely, âthat would suit me well.â
He eyed her in the dark. âYou need to get home quickly?â
âI do.â
âKing Ãthlric is a good king. You will be, too. May it be a long time before that comes to pass, though.â
Bluebell patted his shoulder warmly. âWe are of one mind, Harald.â
Within half an hour, she was back on the road with her dogs, leaving Wylm sleeping like a small, pampered child.
The sour smell of ash and the cool chill of morning. Wylm prickled awake. His shoulder was sore from sleeping on it too hard. He rolled over and opened his eyes. Dawn glimmered through the cracks around the shutters. Next to him, a fat dog slept, snoring lightly. Wylm was still tired, could easily have slept longer. But he wanted to be awake when Bluebell came down. He climbed to his feet and rolled up his pack, setting it by the door of the alehouse. A large bowl of porridge was hanging over the cooking pit, so he fished a bent silver coin out of his pocket to pay for a serving.
The sun was up, the shutters of the alehouse open, and Bluebell wasnât awake yet. This was wonderful. She had relished him sleeping through the thiefâs approach the previous night; perhaps he should find a disgruntled hunter to creep into her room and put his fingers under her blanket.
He wouldnât do it himself though. He valued having a hand attached to each arm.
Wylm finished off the porridge and went outside to sit in the weak morning sun on a carved wooden bench. A strong smell of damp earth filled the air. He spent the time sharpening his blade and watching the town come awake for the day. The door of the alehouse creaked open and he looked up, expecting Bluebell. He
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