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in the guise of a fisherman from Devon of Celtic origin, and a poor one at that, dressed in threadbare clothes. But before that, there had been the feverish delirium he had suffered before he found help for his wound. He had had powerful dreams then, whilst he recovered, and he felt a moment’s fear that this was still that time, that all that had happened since was no more than dreams. He shook the notion off quickly, though, for he couldn’t have dreamed someone like his brother-in-law before he had even met the man. Royce was too unique—and the pain in his head was too real and unrelated to that other time.
    The clothes were not, however. They were just as ragged as those others had been, andit made no sense that he should be wearing them. For that matter, his party had been on the road when they were attacked, so why had he been moved to the side of it? Actually, he could see the road through the foliage, and there were no corpses lying about on it. Had they been discovered already and he himself overlooked because he had crawled into these bushes? And if he had got there on his own, how had he come by the clothes?
    To concentrate on those questions still hurt his head, so he didn’t dwell on them long. And the time of day became urgent now. With the sun dipped low, he knew not if it was morn or late in the day, but he needed to find aid before nightfall, and he couldn’t do that unless he got to his feet.
    It was not easy. The first few tries landed him back on his hands and knees until the dizziness passed, and the first few steps he finally managed were laughable, his legs giving out beneath him, they were so weak. But it became a matter of determination and stubbornness now, not just survival, and at last he was plodding his way through the woods, pushing himself from tree to tree, which he used for support, stumbling when there were none, falling another half-dozen times before he finally got somewhere.
    He stayed to the woods because the road wasn’t safe to travel alone, especially without weapons, and none had been left to him. His long ax was gone, his Frisian sword, the jeweled dagger he wore in his belt, and his beltfor that matter, with the silver-buckle talisman engraved with Thor’s hammer. If he ever found those thieves again…
    He smelled the food before he saw the hut, and the luck that was associated with his name returned, for only the goodwife was there, and she took one look at him and set him down at her table. Loaves of freshly baked bread she put before him, along with creamy butter and whatever had been left from her morning meal, while she cooked him more, including the grouse she had set out for her husband’s supper.
    A round cherub of a woman, in her middle years, she pampered him as he was used to being pampered by women, though he couldn’t understand a word she said. Saxon, he supposed she was speaking, but with an accent unfamiliar to him. And although he tried a number of languages on her, she could understand him no better than he did her. But he ate everything she set before him until he couldn’t stuff another bite down his throat—and yet he felt as if he could eat more.
    He was tempted to pass the night there. Some of his strength had returned, but nowise all of it, and the constant ache in his head hadn’t lessened with the nourishment he had taken. However, what he needed now was a healer, not just rest, and he doubted the goodwife could help him in that, even if he could manage to make her understand what was wrong.
    He was afraid, too, that he was getting feverish, for his thinking wouldn’t stay clear, wasoff and on becoming muddled, so that in one moment he knew where he was, but in the next he wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that he had to get to someone who could understand him and have word sent to his sister. She would then come and fetch him home, because he was no longer certain that he could make it there on his own.
    So he trudged on, moving south.