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mighty before Thurkill came. Northman, my elder brother, was raised to rule. Now I’ve been made earl, I’ve vowed that I will make Mercia strong again, in his memory. Nothing will stop me.”
    Unexpectedly, I yearned to reach out and smooth the clefts around his mouth. To stroke his hair in the way I stroked my horse’s soft mane. I didn’t know this man. Yet my instinct was to comfort us both.
    “I understand,” I said gently, as if I soothed Ebur. “My feelings are the same for the Middle Lands.”
    “Then you must accept Mercia’s aid.” On restless feet, he shifted away. “It was agreed at the Witan Council that Saxon lords must unite.”
    If my plait were hemp it would have frayed. I fretted it again. Could I trust him? It was always a risk allying with another lord, even a fellow Saxon. My father rarely entered into alliances with others, Saxon or no, except under the auspices of the Witan Council.
    But my father wasn’t here.
    “Lord Leofric.” Swallowing my apprehension I released my braid and offered my hand. “Let us combine our forces for the Saxon honor of both our families and our lands.”
    Firm and dry, his grasp closed over mine, his skin calloused with hard riding. Huge. Fingers long and powerful. At release they trailed hot across my palm.
    My breath came fast. “Then we’re agreed?”
    “There’s no time to waste. Tomorrow I must talk with your best warriors and plan our attack. Who is your father’s sheriff? Who will lead your men into battle, with your father gone?”
    Along with my shawl, I gathered my dignity around me. “I will.”
    His boots stirred the rushes, as impatient as a horse pawing the ground. “You misunderstand me. Not who will lead them as their lady, but who will take up arms.”
    “You misunderstand me. I will lead the battle against Thurkill the Tall.”
    Amazement flared in his eyes. “You’re no more than a girl!”
    “Girl or not, I mean to fight.” Seizing my sword, I raised it high above us. The shawl slipped from my shoulders, pooled red at my feet. “I’ll face Thurkill the Tall with my own sword. I’ll not cower and hide indoors until the battle is over. In the fray I’ll fight for my own lands. I have no brothers, Lord Leofric. I was raised a warrior.”
    Both son and daughter. I’d vowed to be.
    Hilt-handed, he’d instantly moved away from the exposed blade. “Girls don’t fight in Mercia.”
    “You’re not in Mercia now.”
    “So I see.” He let go his hilt. But he stayed back, surveying me. “In Mercia, men wield weapons while women weave.”
    It was an old Saxon saying. One I disliked.
    “I can weave and I can also wield a weapon.” I swished my blade. “Can you do both?”
    A fleeting grin creased his cheek. “No.”
    “My mother taught me to weave and my father taught me to fight.” I lowered the sword point to the floor. The flat of the blade caught the firelight. “I ask nothing of my people I don’t ask of myself.”
    He rubbed the golden night-stubble on his jaw. “I know not of another noblewoman who fights.”
    “Why, there was one of your own countrywomen. Don’t you know the tales of the brave and the true? There’s a legend of a great lady of Mercia who was a warrior, too. Didn’t your ancestress Aethelflaed build great fortresses, and do battle herself against the Danes?”
    “Who told you of Aethelflaed?” he demanded.
    “My mother. She raised me on stories of such noblewomen, that in turn I should become one of them.”
    “Aethelflaed was my kinswoman, though it was a hundred years ago that lady of Mercia lived.”
    “The spirit of such women doesn’t die.” I gulped. “Nor will my mother’s spirit as long as I can fight and defend my lands.”
    “Have you fought before?”
    “Not yet.” I pushed down the bile of panic.
    “You could be lost in battle. What then of Coventry, of the land of your father and the spirit of your mother? Have you thought of that?”
    I traced the carved hilt of my