Signe’s house was one of many that formed the sprawling fortified settlement surrounding Magnus’s hall. Many folk lived and worked here, all kinds of crafts were plied, goods made and traded, travelers housed and fortunes told. There were blacksmiths and farriers, tanners and armorers, drunkards and priests. The brothers hurried through the darkened alleys; it was late, though here and there lights still burned, and sounds of revelry or dispute could be heard. Eyvind tried to ask where they were going, but Eirik hushed him. They stopped before a neat, small dwelling whose steps bore red flowers in a pot. Eirik knocked. The house was in darkness; would not the inhabitants, whoever they were, take such an ill-timed visit amiss?

A woman’s voice spoke from within: a low, warm sort of voice. Perhaps its owner had been asleep.

“Who is it?”

“Open up, Signe! It’s Eirik Hallvardsson, and I’ve my young brother with me.” Eirik was grinning. As the door opened, the grin widened and he stepped inside, enveloping the woman who stood there in his arms and planting a smacking kiss on her lips. Eyvind hovered on the doorstep. This, he thought, was only going to make things worse.

“Come in, sweetheart.” Now the woman was looking him up and down, and he stared back. Her form was outlined by the light shining from behind her, inside the dwelling house; her dress, perhaps a nightrobe, was of very fine linen, and the curves of a firm and generous figure were clearly visible: long thighs, rounded belly, full, rose-tipped breasts. Her flaxen hair fanned across her shoulders; her expression was friendly. Eyvind swallowed nervously and took a step backward.

“Come on, dearest, don’t be shy now.” She reached out a white hand; he took it and was drawn inside. The woman turned to Eirik.

“Off you go now, my fine warrior. I’ll look after your little brother, and send him home in time for his breakfast.”

“Be kind to him,” laughed Eirik, and all at once he was gone, and the door closed behind them.

“I–I don’t think…” Eyvind could have kicked himself. He knew what this was all about, he knew what he was supposed to do. Indeed, his body seemed to be preparing itself for immediate action as the woman drew him along the hallway and into a chamber where a soft lamp burned beside a large, comfortable pallet whose rumpled blankets showed that they had, indeed, disturbed her sleep.

“Now, sweetheart,” the woman said, letting go of his hand and sitting on the edge of the bed. Odin’s bones, her skin was as white and pink as meadow flowers, and she smelled so good, a wholesome, milky sort of sweetness that made him long to set his lips there and there and have a taste of her, but…