This lad, however, only stood there in his shabby wadmal with drooping head. Streaks on the sooty skin showed where he had wiped his eyes. “Come in if you like,” he said dully, “but know that my father lies dead.”

“Sad tidings,” Hadding answered. “We’ll not trouble you in your grief. Belike we can make do in your barn.”

“No,” Hardgreip said from the saddle. Her voice shuddered. “Let us into the house.” Hadding looked over his shoulder and saw her sitting, taut as her bowstring, against the windy gray sky.

The boy saw too. The sight overawed him. “Come under our roof,” he quavered. “I’ll take care of your horses.”

Hardgreip close behind, Hadding trod into the single low room. A peat fire burning blue on the hearthstone gave I little warmth. More came from a few kine stalled at the far end, along with smells of them and their dung. He heard them stir, champ their feed, and breathe, but they were shadows to behold. A clay lamp and four rushlights sent flickerings through smoke and the murk that already hung thick. A roughly made bedstead stood at either wall. Otherwise there were only three stools, a wooden chest, and household tools. Food hung from the crossbeams, a haunch of meat above the fire. Withal, this was a well-kempt home, rushes on the floor, a stone-weighted loom in one corner.

A woman met the newcomers. The braids of her hair shone yellow in the dimness, but toil had gnarled her hands and most of her teeth were gone. A toddler clung to her skirts. Two older children hung back, their eyeballs white in the gloom. “We cannot give you good guesting, but a bite to eat and a place to lie down you may have,” she said, as wearily as her son. “I am Gerd, the housewife here. This day my man Skuli Svertingsson died. Tomorrow we’ll bury him as best we can.”

Hadding named himself only, not his father nor his fellow, and asked, “What did he die of?”

“I know not. He felt ill, and suddenly was gone. Yesterday he went into the woods looking for a strayed cow. Maybe a swart elf shot him.”

He lay washed and cleanly clad, his eyes closed for him and the jaw bound up. Hardgreip went over and peered narrowly. He had been long and lean. His nose thrust like a crag from the ashen face and gray-shot beard.

Hadding told the wife he was sorry and promised whatever help he could give. “I can hew a coffin from a log, we can both dig, and we’ll leave a piece of silver in his grave,” he said. She struggled not to weep.

Hardgreip plucked his sleeve. “Come outside with me,” she murmured. Hadding followed her.