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doubtful. His eyes went to Judith. “Are you going to marry Ethelbald?” he asked Judith.
    “Yes.” Her brown eyes smiled at him. “I could not refuse the chance of having you for a brother,”
    A corner of his mouth flipped up.
    She leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Ethelbald is certainly a better bargain than Sidroc the Dane,”
    The other corner of Alfred’s mouth curled.
    “You need your dogs,” said Ethelred, and at that Alfred grinned.
    “You West Saxons and your dogs,” Judith complained humorously.
    “Don’t you have dogs in France?” Ethelred asked.
    “Certainly we do, but we keep them in the kennel,” Judith replied.
    “Most West Saxons keep their dogs in the kennel also,” Ethelred acknowledged. “It is just my family that likes to keep them in the house.”
    “Alfred even sleeps with his!” Judith said with a mock shudder.
    Alfred laughed delightedly. “They keep me warm,” he said. The laugh turned into a yawn.
    “You are tired,” Ethelred said. “I think it would be best if you got some sleep.”
    “I’m not tired at all,” Alfred said, and yawned again. Ethelred and Judith laughed and rose from their chairs as one. “Good night,” Ethelred said firmly, and the two of them left the room. Alfred was asleep almost before the door had closed.

    Two weeks later, Ethelbald and Judith were married, and the day after the marriage Ethelbald was formally crowned King of Wessex. Ethelbald granted to Ethelbert the rule as subking of Kent, as he had sworn to do when Ethelwulf abdicated his rights in Wessex to his eldest son, and Ethelbert returned with his family to the southeastern shires to take up his overlordship. Alfred and Ethelred returned with him.
    Summer passed and then the autumn. The snows came, piling up on the roofs of the halls, weighing down the trees and clogging the roads. Firewood had to be brought in from the forest on sledges instead of carts. In the week before Lent began, Ethelred took a bride. Her name was Cyneburg, and Alfred liked her well enough. It was important for Ethelred to marry, he knew, as Ethelbert so far had produced only girls, and Ethelbald and Judith as yet had no children at all. The only one of Ethelwulf s sons who had as yet fathered a son was Athelstan, the eldest.
    The snows turned to rain. February ebbed away and March blew in. Lent was harder than usual for Alfred this year; he was growing and the Lenten fast left him hungrier than he ever remembered being before. He went to Wilton to celebrate Easter with Ethelbald and Judith, and had a fine few weeks hunting with his brother, the king.
    In August there was a small Danish raid near Hythe in Kent, then another one near Maldon. A few houses were looted and burned, and six deaths were reported. Ethelred’s wife, Cyneburg, was pregnant, and Ethelred asked Alfred to pray she would give him a son. Ethelbert’s most recent child had once more been a girl. It was more than time, Ethelred said, for a boy in the family.
    Christmas came, and with it the news that Judith was also with child.
    In the midst of Lent, Cyneburg gave birth to a boy, and Ethelred was delighted. Ethelbert was holding Easter at Farnham, and Alfred went to spend the holy season with his brother, as Ethelred was preoccupied with his new role as father and Judith was nearing her own time and not feeling well.
    It was while he was at Farnham that the news came of Ethelbald’s death.
    “It was the red fever,” the messenger said grimly. “The king died within forty hours of contracting it.”
    Alfred knew about the red fever. It was a piteous thing to see. The skin went red and spotty and the fever raged fiercely. Most folk who caught it perished.
    Ethelbert, like everyone else at Farnham, was shocked at the news. No one who knew Ethelbald had ever imagined such a thing could befall him. If ever a man looked to flourish for many years, it was he.
    “How is the Lady Judith?” Alfred asked.
    “She has fallen ill also,” came