the crown had gone to his uncle instead. He gave me a sheepish grin, deferring to the second man who was heavyset, full-bearded, and ten years older than Æthelwold. He introduced himself by sneezing, then blew his nose into his hand and wiped the snot onto his leather coat. “Call it springtime,” he grumbled, then stared at me with a truculent expression. “Damned rain never stops. You know who I am?” “Wulfhere,” I said, “Ealdorman of Wiltunscir.” He was a cousin to the king and a leading power in Wessex.
