Margaret and Somerled rode ahead, Eyvind behind. He could not hear what they said to each other. The day was fair; later in the afternoon, a mist would roll in from the sea and blanket hill and crag and glittering waterway in a thick veil of damp. There was a pattern to this, which he had learned to recognize. They must not go too far, for to ride home in such a mist was to invite trouble. And they had not journeyed east as Ulf suggested, but far to the southwest, into a wild place, a forbidden place, part of King Engus’s own realm.

“Somerled,” Eyvind called as they rode farther toward the coast. “We’re already across the boundary. You’ll find no game here. What about Engus’s sentries? We’re in breach of your brother’s agreement.”

Somerled glanced back over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry yourself with it, Eyvind,” he said. “These islanders have scarcely enough folk left to draw water and catch fish for their supper: certainly none to bother with keeping us off their land. Besides, I have something to show Margaret.”

With that, he kicked his horse to a canter, and Margaret’s mount followed, and there was nothing for it but to go after them, cursing Somerled’s propensity for disregarding rules whenever it pleased him.

It was quite a long way. At last they came to a place where the land fell away sharply, and there, far below, the sea smashed in great plumes of white on a jumble of unforgiving rocks. Somerled dismounted and helped Margaret down.

“We need to walk a little farther,” he said. “That way, over the rise. It’s too dangerous for the horses. You’d best stay here, Eyvind, and watch them. We won’t be long.”

“But—” Eyvind began.

Somerled’s brows rose. “You’re a bodyguard, not a nursemaid,” he said. “And we’re under no threat here, I told you. Why would the islanders attack us? I’m Ulf’s brother, after all.”

“But—”

“It’s all right, Eyvind,” Margaret said. “Somerled will look after me.”

And when Eyvind looked at the two of them, standing there side by side, he saw that their mouths had the same set, and their eyes the same expression, and it seemed to him that whatever was between them, the working out of it was quite beyond his power to stop.

“Poor Eyvind,” Somerled said with a half smile. “Don’t think so hard—it hurts your head and does you no good at all. Enjoy the day. Enjoy the view.”

But Eyvind could not. All the time he waited for them to come back, he felt a shadow over himself, and Ulf, and Margaret, and the whole of the crazy endeavor that had brought them to this far corner of the world. He was jumping to conclusions, he told himself. Surely Somerled would not take advantage of his brother’s wife? Surely Margaret would not betray a man as transparently good as Ulf? Probably they only wanted a chance to talk in private together. Margaret was unhappy, a blind man could see that. And Somerled had been her friend; they understood one another. Perhaps she only wanted to tell him her troubles. Why, then, did he feel so worried, why did that sense of dread hang over him? Even if his worst suspicions were true, it would not be the first time such a breaking of the marriage vows had happened. It might be over quickly, and Ulf never the wiser.