Rognvald’s expression was as affable as usual and yet Skarfr had difficulty in meeting the frank hazel eyes.
‘Thorbjorn is nowhere to be found and I would like to see him and Sweyn, together. Do you know where he is?’
To make sure they don’t kill each other over Frakork’s murder. ‘No, my lord.’ Which was true, as far as it went.
‘Hlif said she thought you might know. Why would she think that?’
Because her feelings were hurt and she’d spoken to get back at him. ‘Because she saw me with Lord Thorbjorn yesterday afternoon.’ Now Skarfr did feel he could lift honest eyes to the Jarl’s. ‘He said it was time I trained with the men, as a warrior.’ If his resentment showed, so be it.
A shadow passed over the weary face. ‘And I have kept you a pot-boy. Used fine steel to stir my pottage. Is that what Thorbjorn told you, to win you as his man?’
‘No, sire, he did not!’ But he did not deny being Thorbjorn’s man although he knew he should. The words stuck in his throat, would lead to him declaring whose man he was, an oath he no longer wished to make. How strange to think he would have sworn allegiance to Sweyn, and gladly, such a short time ago.
Rognvald spoke as if to himself. ‘One moment you are at odds, the next you are back-to-back against the world, against the rule of law. And I must protect you from each other, then protect myself from you. So it is with knights. And who shall watch my back? Oh my dear one, who shall rest her head in her hands and grieve over the waste of life in men’s squabbles when you are gone?’
Although the Jarl’s words made no sense, Skarfr could see his fatigue, his shoulders stooped from the burden he carried. How weak Rognvald was compared with Thorbjorn – or Sweyn.
As if summoned, the sea-rover strode into the hall and up to the dais, ignoring Skarfr as if he were invisible. He would rather Sweyn did not remember him so he kept his eyes lowered, barely breathing as he realised he might hear a private audience between the Jarl and the unpredictable pirate.
‘This cannot wait, Rognvald. Every day I delay here, waiting for your decision, Holbodi is nearer Bretland without the support he needs.’
Rognvald’s cheeks furrowed deeper. ‘You are in Holbodi’s debt, Sweyn, not I, and just because you need ships, that does not automatically mean I can do without them. They are my ships. I told you I would give my decision when I have made one.’
‘So conscientious about being Jarl.’ Sweyn blazed impatience. ‘You’re right, a man must honour those who helped him gain his rightful place, Sire, and respond to their need. What about your debt of honour to the man who placed you here?’ His gesture included the hall and implied the wider realm as he leaned over Rognvald. ‘Do you want to be known as the lord who let the Bretlandmen burn our neighbours’ villages and gave only encouragement?’
Rognvald remained sitting, solid and unruffled, his gaze remaining on the game board as if the petitioner’s anger was merely a blustery breeze
‘You shall have your answer tomorrow, Sweyn.’
‘When you’ve found Thorbjorn to ask his permission!’ The sea-rover stooped over Rognvald and swiped the pieces off the board into a tumbled heap.
‘This is what your dithering shall bring – your friends fallen and a double-tongued advisor at your side. What legacy do you leave your heirs with this cowardly peace-dance?’
Sweyn’s eyes blazed as his temper fired words that could not be unsaid. ‘But you have no heirs, do you. Your seed is as weak as your rule. One sickly daughter from all your years swiving. Or maybe your White Christ only allowed you to swive once in twenty years to avoid holy days!’
Rognvald jumped to his feet, a full head shorter than his subject but as worthy an opponent as ice against wildfire. ‘Enough, Sweyn. You forget yourself and you may leave to cool your head.’
Sweyn was far beyond reason. ‘I need no man’s permission to stay or leave. If my sister tells me of one insult to her or to me from that whoreson she married or any other man,’ he glared at the Jarl, ‘this misbegotten alliance is over.’
Sweyn stormed out, with a clatter of boots and squeak of leather, axe-belt against jerkin, leaving Skarfr uncertain as to whether he was threatening to break off from Rognvald or from Thorbjorn, or from both.
Rognvald sat down again, heavily. He disentangled the queen from the pile of pieces and set her throne carefully, almost lovingly on the board. Then he picked up one of the berserker pawns, inspected the crazed expression, teeth champing down so hard on the shield Skarfr could almost imagine the mouth frothing in divine frenzy.
‘And will she take your place in my Bu?’ Rognvald asked the queen and shook his head. ‘She is not fit to do so.’
Embarrassed by the Jarl’s moonstruck behaviour, Skarfr didn’t like to attract his attention, so he stood still, wooden as the central pillar in the hall, mulling over the likelihood of Rognvald giving Sweyn ships and ignoring the insistence of his unsettled guts that Thorbjorn’s absence boded ill.
‘Thorbjorn had the right of it,’ said Rognvald eventually, startling Skarfr with the direct focus of his gaze, once more returned to the world. ‘You should train with my men.’ There was a slight emphasis on my and the Jarl’s knuckles were white with the intensity of his grip on the berserker game piece but Rognvald’s tone showed nothing but his habitual calm.
‘I shall send word for them to expect you in the yard tomorrow morning after breaking fast. And let me know when Lord Thorbjorn returns.’
Skarfr’s stuttered thanks were ignored as the Jarl was distracted by yet another visitor. No armour clanking this time and to judge by the softening expression in Rognvald’s eyes, even an attempt at a weary smile, the person approaching was held in affection.
‘Sire, should we set table for Lord Sweyn and his company this evening or are they leaving?’ Hlif’s practical question sucked the tensions from the air and Skarfr breathed freely again.
‘He stays tonight and leaves tomorrow. I have been remiss in letting you know, my young housekeeper.’
She studied her guardian, without denying his fault. ‘I understand,’ she said.
Rognvald pulled himself to his feet with the awkwardness of a much older man, stretched and loosened cramped limbs. Taller than Hlif by an arm-span, he patted her shoulder as he passed.
‘Go with Hlif to the kitchens and make yourself useful for whatever extra work is needed for our guests,’ the Jarl told Skarfr, who relaxed and watched his liege leave the hall.
The instruction had been clear enough but Rognvald still seemed abstracted, his gait unsteady at first. Then he rallied, strode to the door. To any onlooker he seemed a leader with a purpose.
Alone with Hlif for the first time since he’d appropriated her visions and rejected her helping hand, Skarfr felt the accusation in her stormy eyes and her silence. He would not apologise for behaving as a man and he could not tell her of his real crime, not as he’d left things with Thorbjorn, but he fumbled for a conciliatory topic.
He knew Hlif hated constraints, hated the limits placed on her by her guardian, resented him.
‘The Jarl is not himself,’ he observed, then whispered the treason that would surely renew their former rapport. ‘I fear he is growing too old to rule.’
Hlif looked at him as if he was a beetle, hardly worth stamping underfoot. Dressed for domestic duty, her wiry red curls netted under a clean linen coif, she showed no trace of the wild spirit he’d first met on the beach.
‘And how would you behave,’ she asked him, ‘if your wife was dying, a sea-voyage away from you? With your newborn baby struggling to survive? I can well believe that you,’ she delivered the coup de grâce with hauteur, ‘would feel nothing.’
She gave him no chance to reply but swished her skirts round to march ahead of him towards the kitchen.
His face burned at the injustice. How was he supposed to have known? And how dare she insult him? He didn’t try to catch her up, merely followed the stiff-backed swinging gown in silence. With some satisfaction, he noticed that her feet were still bare and as dusty as his own. She might pretend to be above him but she was no more a lady than he was a lord.
Thorbjorn was right. Women were impossible. And where was Thorbjorn?