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scrambled for a snide comment. It wasn’t Bluebell. It was a silver-haired man in dirty hunting greens, a sleek dog pressed against his thigh.
    â€˜Morning,’ the man said.
    â€˜Morning.’
    He sat next to Wylm and put his pack between his knees. A few seconds later a woman, obviously his wife, joined him. She began going through arrows one at a time, checking for bent shafts and loose fletchings. The man waxed his crossbow string while his dog sniffed around the foundations of the alehouse and pissed every four inches.
    Wylm was itching to get going. His mother was expecting him. Perhaps he should go and wake Bluebell. He stood. Hesitated.
    â€˜Where’s your ugly friend this morning?’ the silver-haired man said.
    â€˜She’s not my friend,’ Wylm countered lightly. ‘She’s my stepsister. She’s the king’s daughter.’
    He laughed. ‘I know who she is. A couple of the men last night were speculating if you were her lover. But you’re her brother, eh? No climbing aboard?’
    Wylm shuddered. ‘No.’
    â€˜She usually travels with a pack. Like a wolf.’ He lined his bow up with his eyes and ran a fingernail over the nocks.
    His wife picked up the thought. ‘When she comes in with just one fellow ... well, we start to talk.’
    â€˜Surely no man could be interested in ... doing that. With her.’
    The silver-haired man raised an eyebrow.
    â€˜Oh, she has a lover,’ his wife said, ‘though nobody knows who it is.’
    Wylm laughed. ‘I hope he wears a mail shirt in bed. And mail pants.’ The thought of Bluebell having any kind of love affair was hugely, hopelessly wrong. ‘I should go and wake her up,’ he muttered. The hunting couple didn’t notice him leaving.
    The warmth inside enveloped him. The fire was stoked again, and all of the sleeping bodies were up and off the floor and packing for travel or hunting. He found the alehouse wife tending to the porridge pot.
    â€˜Where’s Bluebell?’
    â€˜Top of the stairs. You’d better knock.’
    â€˜I will.’
    He took the stairs two at a time, paused outside her door. Wondered for a moment. Did she undress to sleep? What was under those stinking travel clothes? White skin? A pair of small, firm breasts? He chased the thought away angrily. She was probably covered in scars and tattoos to match the ones on her arms. He lifted his hand and rapped hard.
    No answer.
    It occurred to him — very brightly — that she might be dead. She had enough enemies, after all. It was not the first time he had imagined her dead, but now, in the light of Æthlric’s mortal illness ... why, he would have a claim on the throne, would he not? His mother would be the king’s widow, the other daughters were not soldiers like Bluebell and plenty of folk in this land were more comfortable with a man on the throne.
    He pushed open the door, heart speeding.
    Not dead. Gone.
    Wylm cursed, turned on his heel and ran back down the stairs. Let himself out and made for the stables. The silver-haired man’s dog barked at him, snapped once at his heels. Wylm kept running.
    â€˜She left hours before dawn,’ Harald said, as Wylm crashed through the stable gate. ‘You won’t catch her this morning.’
    â€˜The sneaking dog,’ Wylm spat.
    Harald eyed him coldly in the dim light. ‘I should cut your throat for that. But I won’t. I’m sure Bluebell will do it herself one day soon.’
    Wylm reached for his saddle. ‘I’m her brother. She can’t kill me.’
    â€˜You may be right.’ Harald shrugged. ‘But there’d be few that cared if you weren’t.’
    Wylm mounted up and urged his horse forwards. He wouldn’t catch Bluebell, but he could still get there in time to protect his mother from the worst.

Five
    Brimhythe was the largest port town in Thyrsland and it lay twenty miles south of