But it seemed they were not taking him to the isolated farm hut that had held him before. The group was passing to the west of that place, skirting wide around the fields that fringed Ulf’s burial mound, then curving northeastward again to make their way straight toward the settlement and Somerled’s hall. Eyvind held his silence. It was clear to him from the disapproving scowls of his escort that useful information was unlikely to be forthcoming. He knew what was in their minds. To defy your chieftain’s orders and turn against your own forces was bad enough. But what sort of warrior surrenders with no resistance at all, merely for the sake of a warm bed and a joint of mutton? Their eyes told him their opinion. He whom they had once admired, envied, even idolized, was now sunk as low in their estimation as a worm beneath the boot heel: lower, even, because of what he had once been. His shame had robbed them of words.

The sight of the settlement wall, the calls of sentries, brought light back to their eyes and grins to their faces soon enough. Gritting his teeth, Eyvind let them drag him into the enclosure with more than a few glancing blows to ear and jaw inflicted on the way. They tied him to a post while Thorvald went ahead into the hall; it was not long before this new captive attracted a crowd, folk muttering and whispering at first, then jeering and shouting insults as confidence grew. Someone spat in his face. Eyvind held himself still and quiet. His mind showed him small images: Nessa sleeping, a standing stone, dark under the moon with the glittering lake water beyond, a lone, pale beach where slow waves washed the sand. He breathed carefully; there were parts of him that hurt from blows received during that long walk north, blows he had chosen not to return. It was important to stay alert and save what strength he had. These men did not matter. Only Somerled mattered. At the back of the group that now surrounded him, their taunts increasing in the face of his own silence, he saw Grim, a tall, broad figure clad in wolfskin and woolen tunic, the hammer slung on his back. A clever blow, that had been; Grim had known just how hard to strike, to stop but not kill him. He thought neither Holgar nor Erlend had shown such judgment. Still, one could not know who was a friend and who an enemy. Good and bad had become blurred on this island since Ulf’s death. And Grim, too, had charged across the causeway that morning to hew men limb from limb, to part head from shoulders.

Someone threw an egg; it cracked on Eyvind’s cheek and splattered across face and neck.