Rikke’s father had worn being a leader so lightly no one realised they were being led. Listening far more’n he spoke. Folk nodding at his every word like they never heard such wisdom, even if all he was doing was excusing himself for a piss. Sitting on his bench with the old sheepskin around his shoulders, chin propped on his fist. She tried to sit that way, too, but it didn’t work in Skarling’s Chair, she ended up squirming around like she didn’t belong there. Her father had earned everyone’s respect, over years. Rikke didn’t have years. And it sometimes seemed folk would indulge a man’s mistakes, while they held a woman’s against her.

If Isern had been there, she’d have told her to make of her heart a stone. To bury her doubts in a shallow grave. A sprinkle of blood now might save a flood later. Viciousness is a quality much loved o’ the moon. But Isern wasn’t there. Rikke realised she was fussing at the ring through her nose, and forced her hand away, and ended up picking at the arm of Skarling’s Chair with her fingernail instead, which was no better.

“What do you think, Corleth?”

The girl blinked. “Me?”

“Far as I know, you’re the only Corleth I’ve got.”

She stared at the farmer, then back at Rikke. “I guess it was a tough harvest. And it’s been a tough winter.”

“Aye. A tough winter for everyone.” Rikke slumped down unhappily. “You can pay half now. But you’ll make it up after the next harvest, you hear?”

From her father it would’ve sounded patient and level-headed. From her it sounded like a thin-beer compromise. She saw it on the faces. Hardbread scratching his wispy pate. The warriors about the hall sighing away like bellows. Now every farmer in the North would be trying every trick to tickle out her mercy.

“You’ll be making it up to me!” she screeched as the man hurried out, making herself sound weaker’n ever. There was another fellow shoving in at the same moment. A warrior from Uffrith, used to be one of Red Hat’s Carls.

“I’ve got news!” he called, and from the look on his face it wasn’t good. Good news felt like a thing she’d heard about but never actually seen, like dragons or deserts.

“Don’t keep it to yourself,” she grumbled.

“It’s the Nail! He came wi’ four hundred Carls. He took Buddlehay, on the river. Killed three men and said the village was his. He said Uffrith’ll be his as well.”

“That treacherous fucking arsehole!” snarled Rikke, jumping out of Skarling’s Chair. “Thinks he can stab us in the back while we’re tied up wi’ Calder! I’ll see the bloody cross cut in him!”

Hardbread looked even more worried than usual. “We send men to fight the Nail, we’ll scarcely have enough to keep Carleon, let alone to hold the walls if Calder comes.”

Shivers rubbed at his jaw. “Folk here still aren’t sure about you—”