Afterward, though, she told him more. This was bit by bit. She herself did not clearly know what was wrong, why she so often felt sad and thwarted. Nor would she whine about it. But in the end, they both saw.

“I am homesick,” she owned. “Denmark is a sweet land—but how flat, how tame! I live in high honor—but once I roved the mountains, wielded a bow, sped on ski, beheld boundlessness around me, almost as freely as a man. Yes, now I understand a little of what is in Ulfhild.”

Hadding gave thought. More was at stake here than her wishes. Her father King Haakon was aged, would surely die before long. Hadding wanted to keep whole his ties to the Niderings. To that end, he might well be wise to spend more time among them than hitherto.

“Things are in hand in this kingdom,” he said at length. “Should aught go awry, it’s not too many days by sea for me to come back. We could lodge yonder for months at a time.” He laughed. “I’d like some newness myself!”

She gasped. Fire leaped in her eyes, behind tears. She flung her arms about his neck. They being alone in a loft room, he could kiss her, and one thing led to another.

So did it come about that in the ninth year of the great peace they took ship for Norway. They had sent word ahead the year before, asking that a house be built for them in the wild uplands, though at a spot readily reachable. In Nidaros they got a welcome that went on for days. Already gladness shone from Ragnhild. Yet she yearned elsewhere, and for her sake Hadding left with her sooner than he really wanted to. He had been sounding out the men of weight, above all the sons of Haakon. One of them would be hailed king after the old man’s death. Hadding hoped to learn who among them would be best, and begin quietly lending that one what help he could. A kingdom torn by warfare between brothers would be of small use to him. Still, he went off with his wife and their housefolk.

The dwelling stood broad and tall, high on a ridge overlooking peaks, dales, hasty streams, and silver streaks of waterfall. Slopes strewn with boulders, their grass starred with gentian, tumbled down to where, not far below, birch and pine stood thickly mingled. An eagle hovered aloft, sunlight golden on his wings; lesser fowl sped to and fro, hares scuttered, marmots whistled; now and then a bear stumped by, and most nights wolves gave tongue across the wind. That wind blew cool, clean, the farthest mountain as clear to see through it as if one soared there oneself alongside the eagle.

“I am home again,” Ragnhild whispered. “Thank you.”