Then as the months slipped by, bit by bit it changed between them. Her wrath blazed high or sank into slow fire. Again she took to lashing out at housefolk, riding about alone, affronting guests and making eyes at men.
Hadding had not found a second wife who would give him a good tie to a strong house. Nor had he sought hard. Since Ragnhild’s death, he slept with whatever sightly woman was on hand and willing when he felt like it, which was not as often as formerly. However, he was still fond of Gyda. She dwelt in Haven in a house he had given her, but he would go there or she visit him while he was staying hereabouts.
When Ulfhild quarreled with her, shrieked that she was a nasty old slut, and scratched her cheek bloody, the news brought Hadding to a wintry anger. He sought his daughter out in the bower, gripped her arm bruisingly tight, and said, “Come along.” She pulled against him, spitting like a cat. “If you will not walk, I’ll drag you,” he said. She walked.
They went along a path beside a meadow. The year was waning. Below an overcast, rags of cloud flew smoky on a chill wind. The grass had gone sallow. Leaves blew off a stand of beeches nearby. Crows winged low, hoarsely calling.
“There will be no more of this trollishness,” he said.
“Over and over has that woman belittled me,” answered Ulfhild. “She sits by you in the high seat. She gives no thought to my wants, mine, the king’s daughter. When I offer a rede, she cares no more about it than if I were a bairn. Today I told the thrall Kark to groom my horse Gullfaxi. Gyda heard. She wanted him to fetch a box of stuff from her house. She had already bidden him, but—It was too much. I’ve had too much from her.”
Hadding grasped both her arms, swung her around to face him, and said, “Didn’t you hear me? There will be no more trollishness. I too will brook only so much.”
She stared into his eyes. Giants had reared him. Another giant had he slain, and many mighty warriors. He had won in battle against warlocks and had passed through a land of the dead. Never had she seen anything more bleak than his eyes.
Her thews slackened. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, father,” she whispered.
He let her go. “See that you stay sorry.” After a while he went on, half to himself, “I’ve been thinking about this. The time is overpast that we get some worth out of your life.”
He turned and strode back to the hall. She stood long alone in the wind.
From then on she behaved better. Sometimes she whitened and snatched after breath; but she would unclench her fists without letting a word fly free. Other times she would be withdrawn and sullen. But more and more she went among folk as mannerly as befitted a highborn lady. More and more often she called up the merriment that could be hers, or listened to what somebody was saying as though she cared, or sang in her lovely voice.
Meanwhile Hadding took men of weight aside and spoke quietly with them. Thus he found his way forward to what seemed him best.
Nights grew long Rains made mire of the earth; later, pines and firs gloomed above thin snow. Folk huddled over their fires and yearned for the renewing of the sun.
Ulfhild still liked young men. She got to talking and laughing most with Gudorm Thorleifsson, the guardsman who escaped with Hadding from a stricken strand and dangled with him beneath an overturned boat. The king took heed, and began seeking this man out.
Yuletide neared. The household brawled with readymaking for the feast and for the offerings to the gods. One day Hadding bade Ulfhild, “Come.”
They crossed through the murky day over to the women’s bower. Maids were weaving and chatting by lamplight, though they must strain their eyes. Hadding told them to set the work aside and go. When he and his daughter were by themselves, he waved at a stool. “Sit if you wish,” he said. “I have tidings for you.”
Because he kept his feet, she did too. A vein fluttered in her throat. “What is it?” she asked low.
He smiled, more sternly than happily. “At midwinter we’ll drink your betrothal ale.”
Only midsummer would have been a time more high. Ulfhild’s hands lifted to her breasts. “Who is the man?” she breathed.
“I’ve seen how you and Gudorm like each other, and I’ve let him know he would not get a cold answer. Now he’s asked for your hand. He’ll be a good man to you and a stout friend to all of us.”
She gasped. “A yeoman?”
“He’s no smallholder. You remember that his father has lately died. He, as the oldest living son, is the head at Keldorgard. It’s among the richest on Denmark. And the family has land elsewhere, as well as a ship in trade. Nor is he lowborn. His grandfather Bjarni was a leman-child of my great-grandfather King Skjold.”
“But still a yeoman.”
“I’ll raise him to sheriff. If he does well at that, and I think he will, in time I’ll make him a jar!. His name shall be great in the land, and so will the sons you bear him.”
“This is your will?”
“It is,” he said.
She spoke no more that evening.
XXIX
It seemed as though Tosti the Wicked was done for. Hadding had broken his following on the battlefield, killed most, scattered the rest, and brought home a good booty. Thereafter the Dane-king went around quelling the lands from which his foes had dared come. He rode through Jutland to the cromlech stronghold, slew what fighting men were there on watch, and razed it. Naught should have been left for Tosti but to skulk with every hand against him, living like a wolf on what he could steal until he found himself with nowhere
