Siglinda sat spinning before the hearthfire, her eyes on the spindle as she wound the long thread of wool, her heart relaxed in a rare moment of peace. Her maidens whispered and laughed in low voices at her side, and the blaze of logs that was all they needed for warmth in the hearthroom crackled and split. Lyngi was not home; so she was free for a short time to be at peace, to sit and spin while her thoughts ran down like running water, clear and endless. In the straw at her feet rolled and played two puppies, tripping on their long silky ears, giving each other playful nips.

  Three springtides had passed since she had been wedded in this hall. The agony had worn away, and the hope. Habit had inured her to grief and deadened her to fear. Her battered heart no longer swelled at the sight of buds bursting from the boughs, or trembled in fear at a heavy step behind her. It was locked away in a shell, where she let nothing touch it any longer. She sought only to find pleasure in small things: the warmth of the fire, the clumsy wrestling of the puppies. On evenings like this, it was enough. Over the group of women rose the great trunk and spreading limbs of the oak tree, with the hilt of the sword embedded in it; but her eyes no longer sought the gleam of its gold in wonder. She was used to it, and there was no hope to be found there, or anywhere.

  She heard the quick heavy knock of a cane on the wooden floor and sighed, but she did not look up to see Magnhild approach. The old woman leaned over to look at her work, her wrinkled lips pursed. “Are you still working at that?” she snapped. “You should have finished it long since and begun on Lyngi’s new cape.”

  “I am nearly done,” said Siglinda softly.

  “If I did not keep after you, nothing would ever get done in this house. I still do not understand why Lyngi has gone back to Sevafjoll, but you have come home. It is not fitting.”

  “I have told you,” said Siglinda. “He sent me home with Bjorn and Astrid.”

  “But the wedding was not over. What became of Sverre’s bride? I never heard of such a short feast. It is a very ill done business.”

  “The maiden disappeared.” Siglinda paused in her spinning, and creased her brow. “No one knows what happened to her, although some said she had been carried off by outlaws. They could not hold the bridal feast without the bride, so the men rode in search of her—and Lyngi sent me home with the servants. I hope she is all right.”

  “Much do you care,” said Magnhild. She cast a venomous glance at the maidens. “What are you staring at? Have you no work to do?”

  The servants bent obediently to their work. Siglinda went on winding the wool with her fingers, but she bit her lip, wishing the old woman would leave her in peace. Instead Magnhild stalked stiffly over to a bench and sat down, keeping her eyes fixed on Siglinda.

  Her peace was gone, and the old dull ache woke in her breast; she was too accustomed to it to call it grief. She went on with her spinning, and the puppies tumbled on the straw with their pink tongues hanging out, but the maidens no longer whispered at their work.

  They heard a step at the door, in the shadows beyond the oak tree. The puppies sat up with their ears cocked, and the hound asleep beneath the bench roused with a growl. Siglinda looked up, and then she heard the knock: faint and tentative and only twice, as if the knocker were too weak to lift a hand again.

  “Where is Bjorn?” said Magnhild. But Siglinda had already risen. Astrid laid aside her work and sprang up to follow her, but before she reached the door Siglinda had unbarred and opened it. A man stood there, leaning against the doorpost. Siglinda caught her breath at the sight: the side of his head was matted with dark blood, and his clothing was torn and blood-soaked. He lifted a hand, groping before him as if he could not see, and said in a voice thick and stumbling with exhaustion, “I ask shelter—” Taking a step into the hall, his legs gave way and he crumpled suddenly.

  Siglinda ran to kneel at his side. He had fainted; his mouth was lax and he did not stir when she touched his shoulder. She stared in dismay at his right leg, from which blood was seeping to stain the scrubbed floor, and wondered how badly he was hurt. Glancing at Astrid she said, “Bring water and wine and linen cloths; he is losing blood.”

  She heard the stump of Magnhild’s cane behind her. “He has been in a battle,” the brittle voice observed. “We may as well lay him on the bench. If he lives, Lyngi will decide what is to be done with him.”

  “On the bench!” Siglinda glanced up in disbelief. “No, indeed. Inga, go and light a fire in the guest room over the storehouse. And call Bjorn and Eivind to carry him over there.”

  She bent down to try to see the extent of his headwound., and when she looked up Inga still stood there, twisting her hands in uncertainty. Beside her stood Astrid, her plump face uneasy. “What is wrong?” she asked. “Did you not hear me?”

  “That was not my command,” said Magnhild. “The bench will do well enough for him; we do not know who he is, or how he came by his wounds.”

  Siglinda rose and faced her. “I am Lyngi’s wife and mistress in this house,” she said quietly. “No stranger will be refused hospitality while I am mistress here. Inga, Astrid, go and do as I have bidden you.”

  Inga hesitated, but Astrid bobbed a curtsey and with a covert glance of triumph at Magnhild went out. Inga hurried after her.

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  Magnhild clutched her cane, and drawing a deep breath hissed venomously, “You will regret this day.”

  “Will I?” Siglinda turned a clear glance on her. “Then so shall you, Magnhild.”

  The stranger was borne to the guesthouse, and Astrid carried up hot water and clean linen cloths. The women cut away his ruined clothing, washed the blood away, and laid him between soft sheets. Astrid knew of a herb poultice good for injuries, and applied it to the wounds to draw out the inflammation. When all that was done there was little more to do except watch and wait to see whether he would live. Siglinda sat at his bedside with leisure to look at the lean features, drawn with sorrow and pain, and wonder how he came by his wounds. The shadowed line of cheekbone and jaw brought back to her the ghost of a memory; she wondered if he were one of Sverre’s men whom she had seen before. She thought of the dark forested world outside the strong walls of the stead, and shuddered at the thought of the dangers lying in wait there, that could cause such harm.

  Astrid hovered about the room, mending the fire and laying more cloths ready for use. At length with a sideways glance at Siglinda she said, “He is a comely man, is he not?”

  Siglinda blinked and roused from her reverie. “He is wounded, and a stranger,” she said. “That is all that concerns us.”

  “Yes, mistress,” said Astrid, subdued.

  “You may go, Astrid. Your children will be wondering where you are.”

  She watched by him most of that night and the next. As the candles burned shorter and she washed and dressed his wounds, she began to conceive a tenderness for him, as if he were a child she nursed in illness. She had to remind herself that this was no child but a man of whom she knew nothing. On the morning of the second day when he began to show signs of waking, she was overcome by a pang of timidity and withdrew to the foot of the bed. He stirred and opened his eyes, lifting a hand as if the candles still burning in the gray dawn dazzled him. “Where am I?” he asked, turning his head slowly, his gaze wandering around the room until it came to rest on Siglinda’s face, and remained there in bewilderment.

  “You are in the guest house,” she said. “You were wounded. You must lie still and rest, and let nothing trouble you until you are stronger.”

  He lay back on the pillow with a sigh, closing his eyes. But soon he opened them again and watched her moving about the room. At length he asked shyly, “Who are you?”

  She was absorbed in pouring water from the pot over the fire into an earthenware bowl, and spoke over her shoulder. “I am the mistress here; Lyngi’s wife.”

  “Lyngi.” He closed his eyes as she brought the bowl to the bedside. “And I am his guest?”

  “He is away from home,” she said. “He will be back before long.”

  He looked up at her. “Then I have you to thank for your hospitality.”

  “There is no need. We would do the same for any injured stranger.”

  “I have never heard that the Hreidgoths were overready with kindness,” he said bitterly.

  “I am going to change the dressing on your leg,” she said as she lifted the skin covering him. “It has soaked through. I will try not to hurt you.”

  He lay in silence while she washed his injury and wrapped a clean bandage around it. The wound was healing well, in spite of its ragged edges, and she saw no sign of inflammation beyond what was normal. When she had finished and thrown out the water, he asked her for a drink.

  She brought him water and helped him raise himself on one elbow to drink; he gulped it thirstily. When he had lain down again, as she was preparing to leave, he asked, “Will you not stay and talk to me awhile?”

  She hesitated, but saw no harm in it, so sat down again on the stool at his bedside. He did not speak for some moments, so at last she asked, “What is your name?”

  At that he gave a harsh laugh. “It is Ill Luck,” he said, “or Misfortune. My friends may well call me Disaster.” He had a wild look in his eyes as he spoke, but when he saw her startled face he softened and spoke more gently. “I am sorry. I have been a wanderer these many years, and have no notion of how to behave in great folks’ houses. I must ask you to forgive my rude ways. I owe you all the more for your hospitality since I do not have the words to thank you properly.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “That is not important.”

  He fell silent, but searched her face with his eyes. With any other man she would have turned away to hide from his scrutiny, but she did not mind it in him. His eyes were a piercing blue, set wide apart above his hollow cheeks. She felt as if they burned through her flesh into her inmost heart, and saw the loneliness and pain buried there. She was still haunted by the familiarity of his face, but she could not place him. She became aware that she had been staring at him for some moments, and lowered her eyes with the flush rising again to her cheeks. Rising, she said in her most matronly tone, “You must try to sleep now.”

  A pained smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. She reached down to pull the covers up over his shoulder, and he caught her hand and drawing it to his mouth kissed it. His lips were dry and wind-roughened.

  At his touch she felt a sweet fire go all through her. Startled, she stood staring at him, her free hand at her throat. Reddening with embarrassment, she drew away her hand and said shakily, “You have been ill. You will feel more yourself when you have grown stronger.”

  “No doubt,” he said with a wistful smile. “But I shall not feel any less grateful.”

  For two days she cared for him in the guest house, and was glad to see that he steadily regained his strength. She put down his affectionate gesture to the easy sentimentality of sickness, and berated herself for her foolish reaction; she only hoped he had noticed nothing. But she enjoyed talking with him, indeed more than she had ever enjoyed talking to any man, even in her dim memories of her father. This stranger was comforting. He did not berate her for her stupidity or turn away in disgust, as Lyngi often did, or speak to her with the sly obsequiousness of the house servants.

  She noticed that he still had not revealed his name, and assumed it was because he was not sure enough of them to do so. She did not know whether it was because he was an outlaw, or for some other reason; but she did not press him.

  She saw Astrid giving her worried looks, and shook her head at her friend’s foolishness. Their conversation was nothing if not commonplace, as Astrid knew well, for she came often to the guest house on one excuse or another.