“I remembered another time when his vengeance was terrible indeed, another time with no evidence, no proof. When we were young, back in Hammarsby, there was a girl hurt—taken by force, and got with child before she was ready for it. She killed herself. They never knew who was responsible. I knew, but I denied it to myself, I refused to believe he was capable of it. There was a lad, Sigurd, who was fond of the girl; he left Hammarsby soon after she died. Later, on the voyage here, we met Sigurd again, a man still consumed by rage after all those years. He tried to kill Somerled; I stopped him. And then…then there was a terrible accident. Or it seemed like an accident. Sigurd was killed. He was gored by a bull. It was Somerled’s little knife that goaded the creature to charge. But…but I stood there too, on the other side. Somerled had no way of knowing if the bull’s horn would pierce Sigurd’s breast or mine. That made me think. It made me think more than I wanted to.”

“He, too, swore a blood oath,” Nessa said. “But you cannot expect loyalty from such a man. Your brother was right to warn you. Somerled is only interested in winning. He doesn’t care who falls by the wayside.”

“He has been kind to me.”

“Can such a man understand kindness?”

“I told you he saved my life once, when we were boys. That day, he was heroic, strong, altogether admirable. I owe him a great debt for what he did. And he helped me, at the Jarl’s court. I hated the clever talk, the game-playing, the need to summon ready words in order to avoid ridicule. I was respected as a warrior, but I never learned to be a courtier. Over and over again, he got me out of trouble, stood up for me. He could always find the words I needed. And he was kind to Margaret, Ulf’s wife. When she was lonely, he made time for her. She is, I think, the only other to whom he reveals himself, and then but rarely. I cannot believe he is all bad, Nessa. If only he could stand in the other man’s shoes, if only he could understand that it is not a game he plays, but his own life, a precious thing to be lived well and fully: his chance to get things right, to prove his worth. If he knew that, he would have much to give.”

Nessa’s hands tightened around his. She felt curiously close to tears again. “It seems to me you judge him by your own measure,” she said a little shakily. “It’s clear you have not wasted your time here.”