“But they grew,” he said, “and each seemed happy enough with their lot. Several years ago now, their father, Ragnar, became sick. He weakened and wasted away quickly as some men do.” He sighed. “He passed away one Jól, and Skorri became jarl. He took Ragnar’s lands, as had always been expected. Many would think it would be then that the two brothers would truly begin to battle each other. That Runolf would be jealous of his brother’s wealth. But Runolf was content with his smaller hall, building his ships.”

“So what started their feud? I do not believe I have seen two men who hated each other more.”

Audun puffed out his cheeks and held out his hands, palms up.

“Who can truly say? Some would say it was Osvif’s death that sparked it.”

“Runolf’s son?” I had heard Runolf mention the name during his final battle with Skorri.

“Yes, a good lad. Tall like his father, but pretty like his mother.”

“Estrid?”

“She was a beauty.” He stopped speaking to wipe at his cheeks. I had not noticed him start to weep, but tears were flowing freely down his lined face. I looked away, adding more wood to the fire, to avoid shaming him. He sniffed and I glanced at him. He had regained his composure. “A beauty indeed,” he went on. “And a fine woman. I have never seen finer. If you ask me, the wedge between the brothers was Estrid, and Osvif’s death was the final hit of the mallet that split the log.”

“How did he die?”

“Drowned.” He let out a long breath, then sniffed. “Runolf took the boy to sea. They were attacked by Danes from Alabur. In the fighting, Osvif fell overboard. The sailors said that Runolf dived in after him, swimming far and long under the water. Time and again he went in search of his boy, until the men aboard feared that Runolf too would drown. But the boy’s body was never found. Njörðr took him. The ways of the gods cannot be questioned, but Runolf blamed himself. And Estrid blamed him too. Said he should never have taken one so young to sea. Perhaps she was right. Runolf never got over it. He lost himself in his ships, splitting timber and shaping strakes. He seldom went back to the house, instead sleeping with the boats he built. And none built finer.” He looked over at the shadowy shape of Brymsteda. “You have seen how he becomes when he is building.”

I grunted. I had seen how the construction had consumed him, filling each moment of every day.

“He built many ships after Osvif’s death. Nobody was surprised when Estrid moved her household here after Skorri returned without Runolf. She always looked like the wife of a jarl, truth be told. Now, is there any more of this mead? Or ale, perhaps?”