“Yes, I can do that much,” said Eirik unwillingly.
“You can do more. In the past, when I was abroad, you steered the kingdom for me, and steered it well. Should any-thing happen to me, you can again. Keep the peace that I built. Send a ship off in search of Frodi as soon as weather allows. He won’t be hard to find. Bid him come straightway. See him-hailed king. That is all.”
Eirik frowned. “It does not seem small to me. Troublous days lie ahead. If I may speak frankly, lord, your daughter Ulfhild—”
Hadding sighed. “I have my thoughts about her, but I will not utter them. She is still my daughter, and Ragnhild’s. Let her be, to wed whom she will. Whatever shall come of that lies with the Norns. And well do! know that the soul of Frodi is as wild as hers. But so mine once was. I have done what I ‘could. All things end.”
Eirik gazed at him a long while before murmuring, “Memory dies not, the memory of what a man did in his life.”
They rode on to the hall without further talk. Though the bathhouse was too dark to use, servants had set forth tubs of hot water. Men stripped, washed off the clotted blood, donned clean clothes, and laid themselves to rest, in beds, on benches, around the floor.
Hadding rose at dawn. Stealing among the sleepers, he opened the shutbed given Eyjolf and shook the Scanian awake. “Come,” he whispered. “We ride today, do you remember? No need to stir up a fuss.”
“I’m with you, lord,” said the man as softly, and swung his feet out onto the rushes.
“You always have been,” answered Hadding.
They had spoken of this before the offering, by themselves. The king had said merely that he must leave right afterward for a few days and would like fellowship. Otherwise he had told only two housecarles, men whom he knew could hold their tongues.
They had horses and travel gear waiting. A few yawning thralls saw the four ride off. Sunrise found them on the road north along the strand.
Nobody else was upon it, nor did they spy many during the day. To the left were snow-decked fields, murky groves, scattered farmsteads, now and then a hamlet where boats lay drawn ashore and dwellers mostly sat inside at their peat fires. To the right the waters of the Sound lapped on stones and kelp and shimmered below the hills of Scania. Gulls mewed, crows cawed. The air was clear, cold, and still.
“You look rested, lord,” said Eyjolf.
Hadding nodded. “I slept well. The weight that lay on me is slipping off.” His back was straight, his head high.
“I don’t understand.”
“You need not. I’ve something to see to, then you can return.” Hadding clapped Eyjolf ‘s shoulder. “Thank you for coming along. Friends make faring gladsome.”
Seeing the king in a good mood, Eyjolf gave him a rueful grin and said, “Well, I was looking forward to the drinking and swiving back there. But maybe we can make it up later.”
“You will, if I know you,” laughed Hadding.
He went on to speak of bygone times, and roused such talk that the other man lost any forebodings and well-nigh forgot that their errand was unknown to him. They had all their years to call forth, strife, joy, threat, gain, grief, deeds, fun, wonders, tumbling around the North from Denmark to Gardariki, from haunted wilderness to wealthy town, and for Hadding always the seafaring, throb of waves in hull and thrum of wind in rigging, spindrift salt on the mouth, foam and surge before the eyes. They hardly felt the short day pass.
But when the sun went from them, they fell silent. It was as if they had emptied the horn of memory. A full moon rose out of Scania to throw a shivery bridge across the water and strew sparks over the snow. Elsewhere the Winterway frosted heaven; the Wain wheeled upward around the Lodestar; Freyja’s Spindle gleamed amidst glittering throngs. Here at the northern end of Zealand were no dwellings, only heath hoar under the moon, thickets, and a few lonely trees standing black upon it. Off in the west gloomed an edge of wildwood.
The road had become a track, but there was not much farther to go. Where the trail gave out, a but of wattle and daub stood by itself, behind it a bubbling spring. Hadding drew rein. “I keep this for when I wish to hunt hereabouts, or be by myself for a span,” he said. “Wayfarers may use it, but they seldom come. It will do for the night. If you open the door, you’ll have moonlight enough within. You’ll find split wood and kindling, should you want to start a fire and warm your food.”
“What, you’ll not stay with us?” asked Eyjolf.
Hadding shook his gray head. The moon whitened it. “No. I told you I’ve business with the gods. If I’m not back by morning, seek me at the strand.” He pointed northward, onward.
The two housecarles glanced at each other. Under cover of shadow, one drew with his finger the sign of the fylfot, the sun.
Eyjolf’s look was on the king. “Is this your will?”
Hadding smiled. “You should know me well enough by now to know that it is. Goodnight, old friend.” He reached forth to clasp Eyjolf’s hand. “Fare ever well.”
He spurred his horse and rode off over the heath. Their gaze followed him until he was lost to sight.
The land had been rising a little the last part of the way. Where it met the sea it dropped in a steep bluff down to a strip of cobbles. An oak tree stood on the height, gnarled and twisted by untold human lifetimes of wind. Its boughs reached like arms, its
