‘Ah, gold’s a wonderful thing,’ he sighed contentedly. ‘But a man’s wealth comes and goes. As for my boys. . . If they want to forge their way in the world, I can’t fault ’em that. Sure, I’d like to see ’em again.’ He shrugged. ‘But maybe I won’t.’

‘I don’t understand you then. Why did you come?’

‘I guess fate gave me another chance.’ He took a draw on his cup. ‘I told you I served your grandfather. I didn’t tell you how I failed him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Estland Wars were ended by your grandsire’s death. He drowned in the Visla estuary, did you know that? Fell overboard when he was so drunk he couldn’t see the end of his nose.’

‘I heard he drowned, at least.’

‘I was the guard on deck that night. Not twenty winters old, I was. Tired, probably drunk as a stoat too. I often was. I should have seen him. Should have stopped him going over.’

She saw the sincerity in his eyes. ‘It was a long time ago. You can’t have borne that guilt all this time.’

He stared into his cup. ‘Why not? Where else can a man lay down his guilt? It’s been on my conscience a long, long while. He was a hard man, old Ívar. But a good king. And I failed him.’ His eyes snapped up. ‘It’s you. You’re the reason I’m here. You’re my chance to set things right.’

It was strange to think of the threads of such different lives woven together into this moment. Valrik was still looking at her, waiting for some answer. Some affirmation. Instead all she said was, ‘Urðr. Verðandi—’

‘Skuld,’ he replied, finishing her thought. What Was, What Is, and What Must Be. The names of the three Norns who weave a man’s fate. He tapped his cup against hers and they both smiled and drank.

The cup was still at her lips when there was a sharp scream that silenced the revelry in an instant. Lilla turned with everyone else, and suddenly the night was filled with the shouts of angry men, the sound of a scuffle beyond the feasting circle and a moment later a group of Varkonni warriors appeared, dragging two others between them. They flung them down in front of the chieftain’s table. One of them was a Varkonni woman. The other was a Northman.

‘Hel,’ murmured Valrik.

The lead warrior yanked back the Northman’s head and put his knife to the man’s throat. Lilla recognized his face. He was one of Valrik’s crew, a youngish lad from the north of Estland called Jarpr. The Varkonni was railing angrily at his headman.

‘What’s he saying?’ Valrik hissed to Bayan.

‘He says this man dishonoured him and shamed his people. I think that’s his daughter. . .’