From then on she behaved better. Sometimes she whitened and snatched after breath; but she would unclench her fists without letting a word fly free. Other times she would be withdrawn and sullen. But more and more she went among folk as mannerly as befitted a highborn lady. More and more often she called up the merriment that could be hers, or listened to what somebody was saying as though she cared, or sang in her lovely voice.

Meanwhile Hadding took men of weight aside and spoke quietly with them. Thus he found his way forward to what seemed him best.

Nights grew long Rains made mire of the earth; later, pines and firs gloomed above thin snow. Folk huddled over their fires and yearned for the renewing of the sun.

Ulfhild still liked young men. She got to talking and laughing most with Gudorm Thorleifsson, the guardsman who escaped with Hadding from a stricken strand and dangled with him beneath an overturned boat. The king took heed, and began seeking this man out.

Yuletide neared. The household brawled with readymaking for the feast and for the offerings to the gods. One day Hadding bade Ulfhild, “Come.”

They crossed through the murky day over to the women’s bower. Maids were weaving and chatting by lamplight, though they must strain their eyes. Hadding told them to set the work aside and go. When he and his daughter were by themselves, he waved at a stool. “Sit if you wish,” he said. “I have tidings for you.”

Because he kept his feet, she did too. A vein fluttered in her throat. “What is it?” she asked low.

He smiled, more sternly than happily. “At midwinter we’ll drink your betrothal ale.”

Only midsummer would have been a time more high. Ulfhild’s hands lifted to her breasts. “Who is the man?” she breathed.

“I’ve seen how you and Gudorm like each other, and I’ve let him know he would not get a cold answer. Now he’s asked for your hand. He’ll be a good man to you and a stout friend to all of us.”

She gasped. “A yeoman?”

“He’s no smallholder. You remember that his father has lately died. He, as the oldest living son, is the head at Keldorgard. It’s among the richest on Denmark. And the family has land elsewhere, as well as a ship in trade. Nor is he lowborn. His grandfather Bjarni was a leman-child of my great-grandfather King Skjold.”

“But still a yeoman.”

“I’ll raise him to sheriff. If he does well at that, and I think he will, in time I’ll make him a jar!. His name shall be great in the land, and so will the sons you bear him.”

“This is your will?”

“It is,” he said.

She spoke no more that evening.

XXIX