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loyal Egmund with his drooping mustache and sad brown eyes. She could not bear it. He had been with the Welsh Prince Garth, her father, when he had rescued her mother from the Danes who had sacked the Cornish coast. Garth had been honored by Alfred’s father for the deed, given the fair Allyce as his wife, as well as many shires and fertile lands. Egmund had held Rhiannon as a babe, bounced her upon his knee. And like Rhiannon he had spent his life fighting. Fighting the Vikings, the heinous horde of death.
    Kneeling, she dipped her face into the cool, bubblingwater. She let it wash over her and cleanse away the mud—and the touch of the Viking. She began to shiver all over again and pushed herself away from the water, forcing herself back to her feet. The rain had stopped at last. Lightning no longer lit up the sky. She had to go on. She had to walk until she could reach Alfred.
    She trembled again, so eager was she to reach the king. She could not wait to cast her weary self upon his care and tell him her tale. She did not wish to burden him further, but Alfred was the only one who could exact revenge on the Vikings.
    Alfred had been born to the battle with the Norse invader. Even before his birth the Vikings had invaded with deadly menace, besting the men of Dorset, Lincolnshire, East Anglia, Kent, London, Rochester, and Southampton. There had been battles fought against them, and battles won, yet it seemed that the invader had an ever firmer foot upon the ground. Alfred had been the youngest of his father’s sons and had lost three warrior-king brothers before becoming the king himself. He had, upon occasion, paid the Vikings their price for peace, but they were treacherous and broke their truces. Alfred had no recourse but to fight. When the Danish host left Wessex, they went on to Mercia and camped in London. Burhred, the king of Mercia, married to Alfred’s sister, at last gave up the long fight and departed. There was an Englishman—one of the true king’s nobles—on the throne in his place. But in East Anglia, King Edmund had died at the hands of the Danes. In the north they were ruling supreme. Alfred could not fight their numbers in the north. He was determined to keepWessex, and perhaps from there they could some day fight further.
    He fought well, Rhiannon knew. More men had gathered to fight beneath his banner than under that of any other king. He was brave and wise and passionate, and she loved him dearly. Now an army of Danes laid siege to Rochester. Alfred was gathering his forces and preparing to strike, offering aid and succor to the men within the walls of the town who had so bravely held off the enemy throughout the long winter.
    We did not hold on at all, she thought. They had fallen within a day. And they’d had no defenses set; the men trained to battle were all with Alfred, for there had been no warning of an attack.
    Once again she began to shiver. Rowan was with the king. Thank God he had not been with her, for he would never have surrendered to the invaders and he would have died. Too many others had been taken from her. Her father had died in battle with Alfred against Gunthrum; her mother had soon followed him to the grave. So many of her people fell to the Viking blade, or so it seemed, and she could not bear it if Rowan were to die too.
    Rhiannon began to walk more swiftly. On foot, it would take her days to reach the king, she realized. She had meant to escape on horseback, but the Viking lord had caused her to change her plans. She’d had no chance to do anything but flee. She had no horse and was weary and sad, but she had to stumble onward. She didn’t dare stay near the Vikings.
    She started walking, hugging her arms about her as she trembled anew. She didn’t want to be caught bythe towering blond invader. His face was still too clear in her memory, the rugged face with the ice-cold, savage blue eyes. His words of warning echoed in her mind and caused her to quicken her pace.