Evening shadows had fallen when the commanders of Wessex gathered within the manor's great hall for supper. The long table gleamed with trenchers of stewed mutton and pewter cups brimming with ale, yet the mood was sullen. The king's officers, their mail still dusted with the grime of campaign, dined in uneasy silence until a breathless courier brought grim tidings.
The mounted detachment sent north had been ambushed.
"Is the other supply road secure?" one commander asked, setting down his cup.
"I dispatched scouts this morning," Æthelwulf replied. "No word has returned."
The men exchanged glances. Forks clinked idly against bowls. Weariness hung in the air like damp mist. For months they had fought an unseen foe who struck from shadow, plundering villages and melting away before a counterblow could be struck.
They had scarcely resumed eating when the door burst open. A royal guard entered at a run, mud spattering his greaves.
