Eyvind sat. His arms ached; red welts made broad bracelets nearly a handspan wide around his wrists. His hands were shaking; he clasped them tightly together and made himself breathe slowly. A man sidled in with water and a small towel; another brought a tray with roast meat and a jug of ale. Somerled filled two goblets.

“You’re very quiet,” he observed.

“I don’t know what to say to you.” Eyvind looked into his old friend’s eyes. He could read nothing there but anxious concern. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Here, eat and drink a little. Let me tend to those cuts first; there’s crusted blood all down your cheek and across the brow, not to speak of what looks like egg yolk. You’ve managed to surprise me, Eyvind. The man who brought the news said you gave up without a fight.”

“I’m tired,” Eyvind said. “It seemed to me there was nowhere else to run to.”

“But you escaped my custody. Where did you imagine you were going?”

Eyvind did not reply. He would not mention Eirik or Thord; he would not speak of Brother Tadhg. No need to draw others into this. What he must do, he must do alone.

Somerled damped the cloth, dabbed at the wounds on Eyvind’s face. After a while he said quietly, “You can talk to me, Eyvind. I’m not some monster, you know. I am your friend as I always was; like you, I swore to be loyal above all else. That’s why you are here alone with me, not dragged forth to account for your actions before the whole court. I want this settled properly, and I want to protect you if I can. Here, drink this ale, you look like a walking ghost. That’s it. And eat. I suspect you’ve had nothing at all today. The men are angry; you cannot expect them to treat you kindly. They saw the way you defied my orders. They saw the way you stood against your own comrades.”

Eyvind felt confusion and doubt creeping back into his mind; his hand shook, and he set the ale cup down. “What do you mean, protect me?” he asked. “I’ve come here to tell the truth, that’s all.”

Somerled was watching him closely. “Truth?” he queried, brows raised. “Which truth is that? The same you were shouting that morning when you came back from the dead? Unfounded accusations wholly without proof, the rantings of a man driven out of his wits by long captivity and torture? You may choose to call those ravings truth, but I am king here, and these men follow me. On these islands, mine is the only truth that counts.”