This newcomer might be in need of healing, so Oddny started toward the group, prepared to offer her services. As she rounded the corner of the longhouse, she saw Ozur come out to meet them, leaning heavily on his cane and asking, “What’s going on?”
“He washed ashore near the cliffs,” said one of the watchmen to the hersir. “We sent a boat out to get him.”
“What’s your name, son?” Ozur asked.
“Halldor Hallgrimsson,” said the man, raising his head, and Oddny saw his face: square jaw, high cheekbones, russet hair that tumbled down to his shoulders in damp waves. Like her late brother, Vestein, he wore no beard; and, like most free men, he had a seax—a single-edged short sword—hanging horizontally from his belt by two loops attached to the sheath. From what she could see, she guessed he was about her age.
Then she noticed his pale green eyes and the three small, scabbing vertical slits crossing his eyebrow on one side, as if something had recently tried to take his eye out.
Something with small, sharp talons.
Something like a bird. A swallow, even.
“You,” she snarled, and his eyes widened in recognition at the exact moment she lunged forward and slapped him across the face.
“Oddny Ketilsdottir, what has gotten into you?” Ozur asked, aghast. The rest of the men, who’d had only the barest of interactions with their old friend Ketil’s reticent younger daughter, looked equally shocked.
Oddny drew back, head buzzing. Her hands shook violently as she drew her small utility knife from her belt.
“This man is one of the raiders who destroyed my farm,” she said. “I claim his life as compensation.”
“Oddny, that’s not how these things work,” Ozur said.
She ignored him and started forward again, but the men holding Halldor dragged him back, giving her warning looks. One of them put his hand to his seax.
“You would defend one of my family’s killers?” she said. When the men didn’t respond, she gestured wildly with the knife and turned to Ozur in frustration. “If I were a man, you would let me slay him where he stood.”
“Not unless it was a duel,” said the man on Halldor’s right, and a few of the others behind him nodded. “And I don’t think you want that.” Scattered laughter followed these words, and Oddny felt her face heat. Halldor remained silent, his expression betraying nothing, his eyes not leaving her.
Ozur chose a different tactic. “They defend him because they could very well have been in his place during our own exploits. We’ve all been on the raids. We’ve all done as he’s done and haven’t been put to death because of it.”
“That’s because you were never caught,” Oddny spat.
Ozur stepped closer to her, his long white beard quivering as he tried to decide what to say. Finally he told her, so quietly that the other men couldn’t hear, “We don’t know who he is, where he comes from, and what kind of wealth he has to his name . . .”
Oddny realized at once what Ozur had in mind: He meant to extract her dowry from this man as compensation. The same sort of arrangement that Solveig had mentioned, one that would end with Oddny married off and Signy left to her fate. But perhaps, if this was indeed Ozur’s intention, she could work it to her advantage. After all, her dowry would remain her property . . .
And thus a plan started coming together in her mind.
“We may be able to come to terms that will benefit you more than a mere moment’s satisfaction at his death,” Ozur said when she didn’t speak.
“His death would satisfy me for more than just a moment,” Oddny said through her teeth, but she sheathed her knife nonetheless.
If she had any hope of seeing her sister again, she needed Halldor alive.
7
ONCE A CLOAK HAD been placed over Halldor’s shoulders and a steaming bowl of leftover stew shoved into his hands, Ozur bade the young man speak. Halldor sat on the platform, and Ozur, instead of taking his high seat, dragged over a stool and settled down directly in front of his visitor. Oddny sat on the platform across from them, hands white-knuckled on its edge.
The other men kept a respectful distance, but Oddny knew they were listening.
“Where are you from, Halldor Hallgrimsson?” Ozur asked.
“The south. Saeheim, in Vestfold,” said Halldor after he’d wolfed down several spoonfuls of stew. “My father was a blacksmith for King Bjorn.”
“Oh, yes? King Bjorn the Merchant?” Ozur said with interest. “Were you there when he was killed? You look old enough, but you may have been quite young when it happened.”
From where Oddny hovered, she saw Halldor’s eyes narrow. “You mean when his own brother stuck an axe in his chest?”
The hair on Oddny’s arms stood on end; everyone knew that King Eirik had killed two of his brothers, but she’d never heard it spoken of with so much ire.
Ozur squinted at him. “That’s precisely what I mean. That was—oh, how many winters ago?”
“Nine,” Halldor said. “My parents were long dead by then. I only heard about it. Eirik was—”
“King Eirik is the next ruler of our young country,” said Ozur with firm conviction, stamping his cane once on the ground.
“King Eirik. I forget myself. You must forgive me.” Halldor sounded less than apologetic. “We’re not overly fond of him where I come from.”
Ozur said sharply, “King Eirik and his hird will be passing through here any day now on their way back from Bjarmaland. I hope you’ll show them proper respect when they arrive.”
Oddny thought she saw a sudden flash of hunger in Halldor’s eyes, or something very close to it—but when she blinked, his face was carefully blank once more.
“You needn’t worry about me,” Halldor said. “I won’t embarrass my host. May I ask whose hall has so graciously accepted me as a guest?”
Oddny grudgingly had to give the man credit—he knew the right words to say. Flattery could get you everywhere with the right people, and Gunnhild’s father was one such person.
“Ozur Eyvindsson,” said Ozur. “I am a hersir.”
“It’s an honor to have been rescued by such an esteemed man.”
Oddny made a face, realized too late that Halldor had seen her do it, and continued to glare at him as he gave her a flat look.
Ozur said, “And how did you come to be parted from your raiding party?”
Halldor turned his attention back to his host. “I was thrown overboard after a disagreement with my captain.”
“And do you have a trade, or are you a career fighter?”
“I was trained in smithing by Hallgrim—by my father. Back home in Vestfold. Before he died.” Halldor eyed the old man warily, as if knowing exactly what Ozur was getting at. “I can forge rivets, repair cauldrons and the like, but nothing worthy of note. I’m better at fighting by far. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I have nothing against you personally, but I regret that you ended up at the wrong raid at the wrong farm,” said Ozur. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder to where Oddny sat. “You see, when my own youngest daughter was alive . . .” There was pain in the words, and he stopped and collected himself.