It was plain the creature was quite mad and scarcely worth even the low price mentioned. They’d barely begun to count before the first fellow was sprawled on the ground, groaning and clutching his side. Broken ribs, possibly: bruised pride, certainly. They hauled him back over the stone wall, and the second man went in. The stallion was tied; it wore a rudimentary halter with a long rope fastened to a hook in the barn wall. Three men had to hold the rope before Einar Long-Nose could get on the horse’s back. When they let go, he dug his fists into its mane and clung with his knees, his face turning the color of soft cheese, and before they counted to six he, too, was tossed from his perch, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on the stones that bordered the horse yard.

“Not worth the risk,” Einar growled, clambering back to safety as the stallion reared, flailing with its hooves and sending men scattering. “Creature like that’ll never be any good to ride. Look at its eyes.”

“You think?” Somerled was rolling up his sleeves, frowning a little, dark eyes thoughtful as he regarded the plunging, thrashing animal. “Perhaps it only needs to be shown who’s in charge here. Give me a hand, will you?”

There were theories afterward about how Somerled had done it. Some said it was because he was light and agile; some put it down to raw courage. Everyone knew the man was no athlete. There was talk that he used a goad of some kind and terrified the creature into submission. The exact details of it hardly mattered; all present that day agreed that Ulf’s brother had indeed managed to stay on the wild horse’s back for the allotted time, and in addition, caused the stallion to give up its fight and stand in shivering, trembling submission. Somerled had dismounted and walked calmly over to the owner, Gernard, while reaching into his pouch to pull out the animal’s price: a small bag of scrap silver.

“Never underestimate me,” Somerled had said, according to Thord’s account. “It is only a horse, after all.”

That night he had taken them all back to the drinking hall, and amid much laughter and festivity they had given him his second name: they called him Somerled Horse-Master. In a way, the news did not surprise Eyvind. With Somerled, one always expected the unexpected. If his boldness had acquired him a fine animal, albeit a somewhat troublesome one, good luck to him. The name had a certain ring to it. Eyvind was glad he himself had not yet acquired something similar, for he had long feared the choice would be Little Ox, and he did not know how he would explain that to his mother.