It was as they dispersed to see to their various tasks. Marian had decided to speak to the lady Guerún, about the matter of securing some food for the road, or at least some coin for it. Mistrustful as the men were of Guerún, though she pitied the old crone the nun was adamant that the younger lady of Vargrsteinn was trustworthy. Unfamiliar with the lady in question, Cormac was to soon find himself swept along by Meallán’s impatient desire to find themselves some food for the road.

  What was most important to him was the means by which they might capture food and cook it. Saying as they journeyed through the town’s market-square to the north of the castle. “We must be prepared to see to our own needs. Rationed food could only last so long, as it has been said in the book of Fufluns: ‘Give a man a vegetable and you feed him for an hour, teach him to farm and he shall survive for the remainder of his life.’”

  It was the sort of proverb that Conn, had been fond of uttering every Didòmhnaich at the beginning of every temple Session. Kenna had likewise been fond of it, as was the Salmon.

  The market-square was the first that Cormac had seen in all his life, not related to a festival. The merchants had organised their stalls along two streets, which were not as you might imagine it, they were not at all straight. Jagged, with some on the road proper, others farther away from it, with many of the foods and goods they had to offer all about the tables, and around them.

  Those foods placed by the side of the table were often placed in bowls, with many of the merchants paying scant attention to those fleas, bugs and rodents that scampered towards and away from them.

  They were more concerned about the wild-dogs and cats that haunted the streets of the city. Other merchants paid rather more attention, with Cormac finding that the fish merchants were the most keen-eyed having hung the meat they had to sell, up from make-shift walls that they had aligned to either side of the stall-table.

  Those metal-merchants and carpenters and other makers of practical goods, had arrayed themselves along the vertical road the other goods were aligned along a horizontal one.

  These merchants were no less hearty in their calls to all passersby, whom were many. Since the streets were filled to the brim with people keen to purchase what goods they had. Some had come from as far as the northern lands of Rauergard, or from the western plains of Hlérvangr. Still others wore the peculiar lighter-colours of the Amazons, with their strange garb that was double-layered. The men wearing an outer and inner tunic, one of thin linen and the other wool, typically light green or yellow in colouration with linen cloaks of light green, light grey and even black in some cases.

  The women wore outer-dresses that hung from their shoulders typically blue or green of a lighter shade, with pink and red dresses that covered their necks and shoulders, where the outer dress covered the arms, with the outer dress ending somewhere near the knees and the inner one near the ankles. Both the men and women wore boar and deer-skin boots, with the women wearing gold and silver or animal-bone earrings, armbands and rings.

  The hair of the women was long and worn in long intricate braids that went down along the backs of the women, and ended a little above their posteriors.

  Most of the Amazons were blonde or dark of hair, with some being brunettes. The sense of barbarism they exuded though was undeniable, and was visible in every movement they made. The men wore their beards in an untamed fashion, sometimes down to their upper-torso region. In all the Amazons were a fashionable group, with Meallán the one who informed Cormac of who they were, and to keep away from them.

  This he did for fear of the stories he had heard about the brutality, of those people. The Amaazon penchant for brutality was said to be far, far worse than that of the Arnish raiders, who traversed all the sea-routes of the twin Agenors, in search of new lands to plunder.

  These were not the only strange people in the market-square, with there being Centaurs who were fully dressed in a manner that reminded Cormac of Brittian styles he had seen some merchants dress in from the south. There were also Dwarves, many of whom were there selling wood, fish and other commodity goods from Gallia and even from as far as Theodosianople. So that Cormac was able to guess that these men were Sea-Dwarves. All of them men, this surprised him, so that he asked of his friend about this fact.

  “It is because Dwarves guard their women jealously, fearful for them they prefer to keep them away from outsiders.” Meallán explained only to add with a small smile, “They also dislike travel far more than any of the Deep-Dwarves ever could.”

  This admission was one that amazed Cormac. The depths of the knowledge of the hero not only impressed but made him ponder if he might one day know as much as the older man.

  In possession of bronze and silver-coins from ériu that had clovers minted into them, with these silver-clovers as the silver-coins were known, Meallán was to pay for food and goods with these coins. Clover-coins were more popular with the Margdvarrovs, according to him, with silver-coins of any sort beloved by the northerners.

  It was the Arnish whom he was keen to buy wood for the making of bows and fishing-rods, with the érian deciding upon the yew-wood that was so common both on the Lairdly-Isle and Antillia. Keen to save his coins, he also bought strings, sewing needles and cloth that stemmed from the locality of Vargrsteinn.

  “We will have need of every coin, in the future I suspect,” Meallán stated firmly, in spite of the youth not having asked him, why he preferred to pinch his clovers than to pay for more expensive goods.

  Cormac, hardly listened for he was distracted from the conversation that the High-King of ériu’s uncle, was determined to engage in, by the glaring eyes of a great many of the locals of Vargrsteinn.

  Meallán was not blind to the hostility of the locals, saying to the youth after one merchant refused to sell them some sewing needles. “Why do they hate you so?”

  Embarrassed, Cormac admitted if reluctantly, “I insulted Fólki the other day, when he humiliated me after my arrival.”

  “I should have guessed,” the érian grumbled, adding irritably, “I ought to have a few words of my own with that little worm.”

  “It is of no concern,” Cormac replied wearily.

  “It is, if it costs us more coin than it ought to,” Meallán said with a frown, likely of a mind now that he had been cheated of some of the clovers used to pay for their needs, for the journey to come.

  Confrontational by nature, with this aspect of his personality worsened by his worry for his great-nephew, the lordly nobleman was to confront the next glowering merchant who sought to refuse them goods when he asked for a price for it. The good in question was a bit of linen, which he wished to purchase if only to use to close any wounds they might endure during the conflicts that were to come.

  He understood why the man preferred to confront the Tigrun-merchant who was dressed in the manner of an Arn, than to submit to his disdain. Cormac had little desire to confront the man, since there was little to be gained from such a confrontation.

  “Let us go, I am weary of their hatred,” Cormac told the hero just as the quarrel between him and the merchant began to grow, all the more heated.

  “I would first demand, why he stated that we ought to be grateful, for his cod when he sold it but a moment prior to another for a third of the price he demands from us!” Meallán growled almost bellowing just as the merchant shouted back.

  “The prices I offer for my fish, is entirely just,” He defended himself exasperatedly, hardly caring for the tone of the érian.

  The two were prepared to squabble all the more over the topic of fish.

  His gaze and mind wandering, as it once had when he still lived in Caledonia with his mother, who had a tendency, an unfortunate one to seek quarrels needlessly when he would prefer to do other things. He could see that Meallán had the same unfortunate habit at that moment of goading the temper of the person opposite him.

  “Cormac MacMurchadh, whatever are you doing standing there before Arne, bickering over fish?” Hrafnhildr queried of the youth appearing from behind him, with a plethora of guards and sisters, her blonde brow arched upwards some humour in her eyes. She was dressed in a magnificent Nordic-woman’s pink dress, with her hair perfectly braided and a lion-pendant of Freyja about her neck.

  There was as always such intensity, such interest within her uttering of his father’s name that did not greatly please him. He did not know quite why, he did not much care for it, only that he could sense that as with Fólki there was such passion for Murchadh that he could not quite grasp. Murchadh may have been his father, but he was also their kin he mused unsure of what this made the two families to have known the fisherman.

  “We are gathering fish, for the future,” Cormac stated guardedly, pretending that he did not see the suspicion in her eyes.

  “Allow me,” She said abruptly after several seconds, of studying his gaze and that of the uncle of Bradán the Unifier, turning her gaze upon that of Arne, she addressed him now. “Arne why do you persist in requesting more from them, than from others present, in the market-square?”

  “I did not- that is to say, I merely meant that there are costs to fishing,” He stammered visibly uneasy about the subject of his deliberate attempts to keep from selling his fish, to them. At last he happened upon one observation, “They mentioned earlier, when I happened to pay heed to their previous exchange that they wish to build their own rod. What need have they for my fish, if they intend to make their own rods for fishing?”

  “Mayhaps, they wish to eat it until such time that they have completed the carving, of their fishing-rods and making of their nets? What difference does it make to thee? You are here to sell to them fish,” Hrafnhildr countered impatiently, her words left him off-guard and unsure of what to say in response to them.

  “But, it was he who insulted your brother and us by extension, as people of Vargrsteinn,” The merchant countered with nary any wisdom in sight.

  Hrafnhildr looked now to the Caled, having been hitherto ignorant of what had transpired betwixt her brother and him.

  It was with a shrug, he was to reply with little interest in apologising, “I did naught wrong, it was Fólki who began the quarrel, thereby I have naught to apologise for.”

  The quarrel lasted a little longer with Hrafnhildr not entirely convinced, of the rectitude of the justice of Cormac’s cause. At the same time that she criticised Arne, who was to in time give in to the request for him to properly barter with Meallán, if reluctantly so. Once they had the fish in hand, the hero of ériu was to turn about to thank the daughter of Sweyn.

  “Thank you milady, if it were not for you I imagine it might well have come to blows between us and the merchants.” The nobleman said with the utmost sincerity, a paternal sort of warmth in his smile as he directed Cormac towards the castle.

  “Nonsense, I simply did my duty,” Hrafnhildr murmured with a small smile.

  Cormac walked ahead of them, in a hurry to return to the keep to lay the fish in his arms, along with the long stick and strings, and linen before Marian. Determined to leave behind, the discomfort embodied by the fair daughter of Sweyn, he hurried into the wooden building.

  *****

  It was impossible to avoid the attention of the Jarl, for long, as they soon discovered. It was two days after the incident in the market-square, with Cormac wandering throughout the city, usually in the company of Erling. This went some way towards mollifying some of the people, who were nonetheless curious to see whether the son could fish half, so well as the father. A challenge that Cormac might have otherwise been eager, to see for himself were it not for the fact that there were a great many preparations to see to, for their journey.

  But at the time when the greatest of all the Jarls, learnt of their intentions to leave his home, he was filled with bitterness and anger.

  “Have ye so little gratitude, for me and all that I have done that ye would leave so soon?” He demanded infuriated by their informing him shortly after he came to confront them, shortly after their return that day from having purchased a drakkar.

  Ordinarily Cormac would have preferred to craft such a boat himself, it had long been his dream to do so. Since he had heard from the Salmon, the phrase his own grandfather had uttered so very often; ‘no man that purchases a boat in place of crafting his own, is a true fisherman. For a fisherman’s boat is the image of his soul.’

  What shape would my soul take, if it could take shape? Cormac mused to himself, genuinely fascinated by the philosophy of his grandfather and that of Inga’s.

  Polite as she always was, Marian engaged with the Jarl in dialogue that made all men and women, inspired by her wit and innate goodness. “My good laird of Vargrsteinn, your concern is noted and appreciated however we have a duty to see to.”

  “But, what of my duty? I swore to Murchadh that I would meet his son, do right by him and to not allow myself to fail him as I did the father.” Sweyn proclaimed standing in his mead-hall, before them as they leant their new possessions upon the table, cording them together with some linen cloth and salt. There was a pleading note and a great deal of anger to his voice, his vivid dark blue gaze going not to the Sister of Ziu, or the érian King’s uncle but rather, the son of Murchadh. “Would you have me become an oath-breaker?”

  This query was felt to be directed at Cormac, though he spoke to his two companions. Disconcerted, it appeared as though neither of them knew how to answer, his question. Both were immensely troubled by the pain of the Arn.

  Surrounded by a number of his sons, and several of his daughters, notably the eldest of his sons, and Fólki, with Erling noticeably absent due to his having left, on a hunt, the Jarl had appeared in his full majesty. A majesty that had been previously diminished, by the sorrow of his mien, the grief of his loss of a friend and yet now appeared fully restored, so that he was the kingliest man Cormac had ever beheld. Certainly, Bardulf was kingly by nature; however his dignity was diminished in some capacity by the dourness of his appearance and the sadness that always haunted him. Dressed now not in the black of mourning, but rather a brown tunic and trousers, with a fur-cloak about his shoulders, with his silver sea-drake coronet upon his brow, Sweyn was truly magnificent.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  His sons were dressed in far grander tunics or in the case of the two eldest, in hauberks so that if the Jarl was as venerable Njord, they were as Asa-Thor or Tyr. As to the daughters, most of the eldest of them were gone, with their husbands to their own lands farther west. It had been decided by the Jarl to strengthen his ties as best he could, with those barons under his command lest they should turn upon him, for one of the two rival clans that encircled his lands.

  Thus, it was the youngest of his daughters who lived in his keep, with two of them over the age of twenty and as yet unmarried. They were Auegunn and Hrafnhildr, both of whom appeared visibly stunned by the decision on their part to leave Vargrsteinn.

  “My laird, I shan’t promise that to allow us to go is not a breaking of your oath,” Cormac said taking the matter into his own hands. “What I can swear to you is that this is what my father would have done. He would know that we must reach, Mt-Cyril if we are to have any hope of putting a stop to the Dark Laird’s ambitions of conquest.”

  It was at this time that several of Sweyn’s sons took up expressions of concern, not least of which was the Jarl himself. In all the time they had seen him, he had never appeared so afraid.

  It was now that he sent away Fólki, to call upon a man, he named as Brother Erast. “Brother Erast, I require his services, his counsel in this matter.”

  The name was an unfamiliar one to both the érian and the Caled. It was not however entirely unfamiliar to Marian, who began to appear both aggrieved and concerned.

  “Surely you do not speak of Erast?” Marian asked of him.

  “Who is Erast?” Cormac asked of her, curious about this man of whom she spoke.

  “A heinous man and a traitor by nature, a man I once counselled the previous Grand Divan to cast out of the city of Quirinas, which he did in his wisdom.” Marian informed him, in a disgusted tone. She turned now her attention to the Jarl of the Vargrsteinn, to attempt to urge him away from this particular counsellor. “Venerable Sweyn, you must surely recognize that this man, this Erast is hardly your friend, he has been sent by the Dark Laird to weaken you.”

  Sweyn scoffed at this, refusing to believe in the ill-natured intent of his servant who did not take long to appear shortly thereafter. “Erast is loyal, certainly he is not as pious as some of those who follow the Quirinian faith, and yet it was he who was first herein Vargrsteinn, to befriend Murchadh. Surely that must account for something, in your view Sister Marian? What is more, is he not a druid and you a lowly sister, does that not make him your superior?”

  “By virtue of rank if naught else,” She muttered infuriated.

  Erast was a short, squat plump man one whom was bald and reeked of too many spices, it smelt as though he bathed in them and yet there was a stench as death that clung to him. Deep-set dark eyes protruded from his face, his lips were thick and he dressed himself in silk dark blue robes with gold and silver trimmings, and hems. Long-nosed and bald, he was the sort of man who haunted every decadent court. The sort of man, who was always first to agree, and also first of all to flee when his counsels were followed and doom came bearing down upon his lairds.

  At the sight of him, the first thought that entered Cormac’s heart was one of revulsion as he found it difficult to believe, his father could possibly have trusted such a creature.

  It was when he spoke that some of this particular creature’s true talents showed themselves, for he had within him a talent for words, and a spidery honeyed voice. It was the sort of voice that inspired in some men, the most foolish of that variety the uttermost confidence, such that they were to trust in him against their better judgement.

  “You called for me,” Murmured Erast, in his honeyed tones looking every inch his seventy years, as he bowed and scraped in mockery of the Jarl.

  The sons of Sweyn were one and all to look to the terrible old man eagerly, with the kind of esteem and hope that children look to their father with. Only Erling and ástríer appeared disgusted, for they wished him gone. The daughters of the Jarl were no different, with Hrafnhildr wrinkling her nose in disgust at the sight of the old man, and her sister Saldis hiding behind her.

  It was to him though that the father turned now to, keen for wisdom and eager for the view of a man who appeared to his mind, to be of a similar one to himself. “Wise Erast, tell me what I should do in this manner? My brother by oath’s son is hereat hand, and wishes to depart from our lands to claim the Spear of Providence. What is your counsel?”

  Once a sensible man, it was now that the Jarl lost all sense of reason, this Cormac could see as surely as the horrid Erast did. The old man who had been observing, the pretty Hrafnhildr with a strange hunger upon his face that troubled those who saw through him, said to him. “My laird, it is folly to fight against the Dark Lord, for we all remember what goei Ketill did after he claimed, it necessary to resist the dark one.”

  “I have always found Ketill wise beyond his years,” Erling grumbled to himself, “The goei sought to save us from ourselves father.”

  “Bah, this after he sought the death of my wife, your stepmother,” Jarl Sweyn proclaimed with a loud snort of disapproval, “Would you have your brothers and sisters robbed of their mother?”

  “No, though I would have them and she realizes that it is he who will lead us to our doom,” Erling retorted savagely, his temper having begun to flare to life in the face of his father’s utter folly.

  It was in this manner that Cormac discovered that the lady Guerún, the unlikeable crone of Vargrsteinn had converted to the faith of Quirinas. This should have made him like her, or respect her for turning away from the savage gods of the north, yet he could hardly bring himself to.

  “Such division, it is only through unity that we may achieve progress and glory to the state of Vargrsteinn, therefore I would have no further quarrels over my presence here!” Erast intervened in his falsely warm voice, eyes glittering with malice for the prince who continued to defy him. “If this is to be my legacy here, I shall return to the temple, to prepare for my return to the Continent!”

  Yet he did not move to leave, nor did he seem at all prepared to go. Seating himself at the table in spite of his words and poured himself a libation, as if to toast himself.

  The kin of Sweyn though, were entirely ensorcelled by him, unable to see that the encroaching darkness was not one that came from without, but from within. It was from their own souls and halls it had sprung, yet desperate for it they begged for he who had nurtured that evil to shield them from it.

  It was in this manner that they fell, prey to the dark entreaties of Erast who counselled them at their urging, “We must not allow for them to go, for the outside world is dangerous. There is little hope of defeating the Dark Lord in the manner which they claim to be able to, therefore we must not let them go. For that would be a tragedy.”

  Carefully and skilfully, in the way of all traitors, he used the greatest, most kindly of words so that he wrought his evil.

  Full of wroth at the sight of this spider weaving together his nefarious web of lies and deception, Meallán trembled and spat at the sight of the hearty nods and uncertainty that spread as noxious air from one diseased soul to another.

  “Enough of this! I had come hither to this place, in full confidence that as a man reputed for his strong-arm and even mightier heart that you Sweyn would aid us! Can you not see what it is that this wretched serpent would have you do? What is the difference between the Margdvarrovs’ imprisonment of Cormac and what he counsels?”

  These insults wore upon the good-will of the sons of Sweyn and upon the greatest of all the heirs of the house, so that his white beard trembling and teeth bared, he ordered them away. “Away with you, I will not hear of this issue any further, for there is no hope to defeat the Dark Lord in the way you have spoken of. I have thought on it, and decided upon what you are to do, and it is that; you will stay here as my guests and we shall consult with my wives’ kinsmen on this matter.”

  “Can you not see that that way, leads to damnation?” Cormac argued intervening now himself, his own temper awakened due in no small part to his shock at hearing the old man speak so foolishly, when he had earlier seemed so wise. “Please, for the love of my father, a man you claimed as a brother and the guilt you feel at having robbed him from his family, help us! Do not hinder our quest for we must be away from this place!”

  His words that had in the past yielded such success, and had always with their passion and earnestness convinced so many to assist them, as with Thvalin met with resounding failure.

  *****

  Forbidden from leaving the city, the travelers from the other two isles proceeded regardless of Sweyn’s proclamations. The foul-tempered Meallán, refused to be dissuaded, overwhelmed as he was by concern for his beloved great-nephew would allow for naught else to be discussed. As to Marian she was keen to humour him, being little pleased by the decision of time-honoured Vargrsteinn.

  “We must have the boat prepared regardless, to follow the river that runs to the north of this city,” Meallán declared the following day as they now explored the city under heavy guard.

  “If I may, I would counsel you to consider leaving shortly after the suns arise,” Hr?rekr the head-guard advised sagely.

  The captain of the guards assigned to them, the faithful friend of the chief-most of Sweyn’s sons Hjálmarr. He ought to have been keeping them from such discussions, and yet there was little love within his heart for the viper that had slipped into the city. A man who admitted to have had little love for Murchadh, if by virtue of their differences in matters of faith, he did however respect him for the breadth of his knowledge of old Arnish customs.

  Customs that were little trusted or regarded, in Caledonia save in some places. These ways were known though, only by those who sought to understand the minds and reasons for the actions of the Northmen who had come down to plague the lands to the south of the Glacial-Sea.

  Almost puritanical in his beliefs, he had however come to appreciate the courageous Meallán, whom had slain countless of his fellow Arns. This before their first meeting, theirs was already a close friendship, forged by respect for one another’s courage, which neither had in short-supply.

  While he had not much liked Murchadh in life, the man’s sacrifice for Fólki had inspired in Hr?rekr some admiration.

  “If only Fólki had not gone to hunt the day of the Ambush of the Graywoods,” He had said by way of introduction earlier that day. Having observed the man from a distance, since his arrival in the city, with some mistrust as he was one of those who had glowered suspiciously at Murchadh’s son Cormac agreed with his words.

  “Tell me of that day,” He had said.

  “It was bright and sunny, the young prince was a-hunting with his most faithful, and it was just as they chased a particularly unique deer one said to have multiple horns upon its head- nine I think Fólki reported later. It was by the river that the ambush took place. They were ambushed by a number of them, snake-beasts, they who are the most faithful of the wicked servants of the Enemy.”

  Hr?rekr said with a grim expression on his dour face that was swarthy from all the time he had spent outside, under the heat of the twin-suns. His was a dark-haired mane of braided hair and a beard long, with a long scar that went over his left eye down the length of his cheek bone to under his left-ear. He had others upon his arms that he preferred to keep bare to the suns; he also wore at almost all times a steel hauberk and chainmail when not leaving his arms bare to the world.

  Tall and hardly the best looking of fellows, he was a formidable and mighty figure, one who could have matched any of the finest of Mael Bethad’s greatest huscarls and guards. His storm-grey eyes were piercing and far in a way sharper than any of the axes or swords girded to his back or belt. “There were hundreds of the serpent involved in the ambush, and trust me O son of Murchadh the Fishmonger when I say that those of us who came to the rescue of our prince, were hard-pressed to fight them back. We gave chase too after the battle, but only made it some twenty-leagues from the forest when we lost sight of them. Trading your father for the prince was most unwise methinks, since what did we gain from it?”

  It was a question that Cormac still asked himself.

  Marian though had a ready answer at the bottom of the stair-case where they awaited her, as she arrived in time to hear the question, “Hope, Hr?rekr, hope is what we gained and what Murchadh MacWaltigon died for.”

  *****

  By this time though that is to say when they stood upon the palisade of Vargrsteinn, overlooking the river with dark eyes and hard hearts, they spoke not of the past but of the future. It was a dark topic, one that the other guards who trailed them, just before their dismissal by Hr?rekr had grown sick in heart of hearing of.

  “What soft-bellied cowards they are, to whine of how bleak this talk of serpents, of the Dark Lord intends for us all and of the encroachment of our enemies all about us.” Hr?rekr complained with a glower in the direction of his men. “Ye would never ‘ear such talk up in Asgard, amongst Oein’s folk the Aesir, therefore why hear such sullen whining down ‘ere. Hard talks are necessary I say, to confront that which lies before us.”

  “Agreed,” Marian said at once, only to add to his words, “It is however the way of men, to flee from shadows even as their candles are snuffed out, and this I fear may in fact be our undoing in this most crucial of battles.”

  Her words were bleak, though there was little dourness in her voice only a resolute conviction. He did not share the hope she felt within her valiant heart, Hr?rekr was of much the same opinion as she.

  It was Cormac who found that he was not sure he much liked this glum talk, of the death of men. Though he did not know how to steer the conversation away from it, save by reminding them of the original reason they had come out to stand a-top the city walls.

  “Leave shortly after the dawn, but why?” He asked with forced eagerness.

  “Because, it is when the Jarl will least expect it,” the tough thirty-four year old warrior said with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

  “I suppose we will have to have the Blood-Gem brought hither, from the island ere that time, eh Sister Marian?” Meallán said bleakly, dreading just as Cormac did the return of the ruby that had bedevilled their entire journey up to that moment.

  Glumly, the nun at last fell silent, nodding her head with visible reluctance also.

  This she was to do shortly after lunch, doing so alone with the aid of several of the local fishermen.

  *****

  While Marian was absent on the isle of Estrivik that Cormac was to have his first true confrontation with the lady Guerún. A lady who had in all his time in the city of Vargrsteinn, avoided him just as he had her, so that when he returned with Meallán and Hr?rekr it was to find a feast in progress. One that they were soon invited to, with Erast present for this feast with the druid seated to the left of the lady.

  An air of indignation haunted them, the moment that Sweyn invited Cormac to seat himself as always by his side, with Meallán in turn invited by Erling who was to sit to the end of the left-hand side of the table.

  “Why do you invite him to seat himself, by your side when he has shown himself, to be no different from that traitor Ketill? Have ye so little love, in your heart for me after all the years I dedicated to thee and our children?” Guerún complained bitterly, her arms agitating as she spoke motioning to the newly arrived men.

  Suspicious of them, as he was of their desire to depart, Sweyn would not hear of any further complaints regarding them. “Silence woman, why do you complain of a lack of love? Have I not also given to thee forty of my own years of life? Was that not enough for you? You asked to have Ketill imprisoned this I have done, in spite of the love I bore him and you insisted that Murchadh be traded to Herleifr for my son, this I also did. And now you dare to complain of lack of love? Mayhaps it is simply you who has lost your love, for our sons and I?”

  It was this sort of argument that always served to embarrass Cormac, when he was exposed to it in the house of another. It was precisely the reason he had despised visiting Indulf and Trygve, or even Inga in their homes. Freygil and Ida when they bickered did so rather bitterly, with Simidh and Mairead the parents of Inga also prone to terrible bursts of temper against one another.

  Always it made him wonder, if when they began to question whether they still loved one another, if this was the sign that lovers had ceased to be just that. It was a thought that made him shiver, and pray that he would never treat Daegan in such a way. To treat her so poorly, he knew would be a betrayal not only of her, but of the core-most crucial part of his own self.

  “Mother, father peace this is not the sort of quarrel that ye ought to have, before the whole of our kith and kin,” Hjálmarr the eldest of their sons pleaded.

  “Aye, mayhaps peace could be best achieved by remembering that it is not by railing at one another that unity, is best achieved?” the lady ástríer intervened at last, laying down upon her husband a restraining hand, one that he held fervently in his own. His eyes and face softening with love, a love that brought out contrary to the faded passion that still existed betwixt him and Guerún naught but the best in him.

  “Verily, you speak the truth as always, my ástríer,” He uttered ashamed of himself, ere he bellowed for all to rejoice at the plenty they currently enjoyed. For though there had been some difficulties amongst some of their tenants’ farms the year had nonetheless for the most part, been a good one.

  Picking at his plate, Cormac could not think of a more dour, and boring feast. There was no singing, no talk save for plans to expand the city, and of how best to avoid conflict in the north. It was talk such as this that opened his eyes, to the fact that for all their bravado, the northron Arns who had plagued the coasts of Caledonia could be just as easily unmanned as they, by fear.

  Something of his disapproval must have shown, for while he picked at his plate Guerún addressed him directly once more, “Is something the matter with you Cormac of Caledonia? Is our humble food not to your liking? Is it that you fancy our cooked and roasted boar-hides and fish beneath you?”

  He had by this time become accustomed over the course of a life-time of being treated and misunderstood continuously by his mother, Cormac continued to find this woman particularly unpleasant. Kenna though she had demeaned him, had still had good intent, and been filled with some affection towards him, while this woman had naught but disdain for all, save for Erast.

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