Over many sweet nights since then, Signe had taught him a woman could indeed take joy in the act of mating, could experience a pleasure as piercingly intense, as blinding in its ferocity as his own. Indeed, he learned that to give enjoyment could be as satisfying as taking it, as she taught him new ways and, later, as his skills improved, they discovered newer ones together. He wondered, at times, about what Somerled had once told him: not a lie, since blood brothers do not lie to one another, but a misapprehension that caused him to think hard about his friend, and what had occurred that terrible summer at the shieling. He would have liked to explain to Somerled that he had got it wrong about women; that if one listened to what they had to tell, and valued what they had to give, and offered them respect, there was a depth of happiness in the congress between man and woman that could not be found elsewhere. But he did not speak of this. Somerled was a courtier, clever, sophisticated, still liable to snap with some cruelty if displeased. Tell him this truth, and it was very possible the only response would be a derisive laugh.

It wasn’t until much later, when Eyvind was a grown man of eighteen, that Signe told him she’d known he was a Wolfskin from the way he’d made love the first few times: charging straight in for the kill, so to speak, with not a hint of subtlety about it. He had the grace to blush a little, remembering how much she had taught him since then.

“I was only a boy,” he protested, rolling onto his back to watch her as she dressed by candlelight.

“Oh, yes, and you’re such an old man now,” smiled Signe, putting on her stockings in a way that made him itch to pull her back into bed once more. But he did not. With Signe, there were certain rules one had to follow. He knew she went with other men, his brother among them. He knew she chose carefully, and that she did not ask for payment, though she received gifts gracefully when offered. He understood the meaning of the pot of flowers, and that it must be respected—it was a sign to show if another shared her bed, or if there might be a place there for him when he needed her. For Eyvind, she usually was free; he knew he was some sort of favorite, and never ceased to be grateful for it. The elegant ladies of the court still alarmed him, even now, with their sidelong glances and clever flirtatious asides. And he would not take a woman as part of the spoils of battle, though some of the others saw that as no more than a Wolfskin’s right.