Highest in the thorp stood a hall. Timbered and shingled, two back-stepped stories rose with dragon figures at every gable end. Around the upper floor ran a covered gallery. At the back were a cookhouse and a bower where women could spin and weave. Here, not far from the fisher and trader town Haven on the Sound, was one of the best of the dwellings Skjold had built for himself around Denmark.

Gro’s wain stopped at the front door. Grooms took over the horses while she and her men stepped down and went inside past more guardsmen. None of those were Danes.

Beyond the entry, where they left their weapons and cloaks, the main room reached a hundred feet. On this murky day shadows shifted everywhere about in it. The air lay blue and sharp with smoke, which was not rising well. However, many lighted lamps were set forth, not only of clay but polished stone and finely wrought bronze. Light also flickered from the fires on hearthstones along the floor. It touched on wainscots and hangings behind the platform benches that lined the walls and were also chests for storage. Graven with the shapes of gods, heroes, and beasts, the pillars upholding the crossbeams seemed half-alive.

Rushes rustled under Queen Gro’s feet as she strode to the high seat where King Svipdag sat, at the middle of the east wall. She went fearless, her face stiff, a tall woman still handsome to behold. Above her pleated linen undergown, silver brooches at the shoulders linked the loops of embroidered front-and-back apron panels. Embroidered likewise was the kerchief covering the brown coils of her hair. The right brooch also clasped a loop of fine chain from which dangled the keys of her own household. Amber beads glowed around her neck and gold rings gleamed on her wrists.

“Greeting and welcome,” said the king, carefully rather than heartily. “Come sit beside me. Let your followers take their ease. There is mead for all, and a feast under way.”

Gro watched him for a span before she answered, “Well, since you asked me to come here, I should think you would make ready for me.”

He was a big man of some forty winters, his dark hair and pointed beard beginning to grizzle. Two scars seamed a thick-boned, hook-nosed face. He too was well garbed, in furtrimmed kirtle, blue breeks, and elkhide shoes. She could easily enough understand his Norse burr.

He stiffened at her haughtiness, curbed himself, and said, “I mean to show you more honor than I hear has been yours lately. But if you will not talk with me, you can go home tomorrow”

“Oh, I have given thought to this since your messenger came,” she told him. “We shall talk.”