“Ah, Eyvind,” said Somerled, not getting up. “Where have you been? This is the lady Margaret, daughter of Thorvald Strong-Arm. She’s come here to marry my brother. But Ulf’s mind is much taken up with other things these days: ships, mostly. He hasn’t a great deal of time to spare. So, as you see, the lady’s having to make do with me. Margaret, this large fellow is my friend, Eyvind Hallvardsson. He is a Wolfskin, and much cherished by the Jarl. We don’t see enough of him these days. He does rather tend to be away raiding strongholds, or chopping off heads, or—”

“You talk too much, Somerled,” said Margaret crisply, and Somerled fell silent. Eyvind gaped. “Sit here by us, Eyvind,” she went on. “This game’s going nowhere. Perhaps you can help me.”

“Me?” said Eyvind, as Somerled’s mouth curved in a derisive half smile. “Hardly. I’m no good at games, not this kind, anyway.”

“No? A shame. I’ll just have to beat him myself, then.” Her dark brows creased in a frown of concentration; her elegant fingers, long-nailed, ring-bedecked, reached to nudge one of her men forward. “Your move,” she said sweetly, looking straight into Somerled’s eyes.

It was quite a long game. Eyvind had never understood the rules or the strategies; instead of following the pieces, he watched the players. Sometimes he got up to fetch ale, or to stretch his legs. It was very quiet; the others spoke less and less as the morning wore on and the number of men on the board dwindled. It seemed to Eyvind that there were two games being played here: the one with the small soldiers in black and green, hopping about the inlaid squares in a dance of pursuit and evasion, and another, far more dangerous game whose moves were gestures and glances, a slight shifting of the body, the tone of a murmured word. How long had Margaret been here, a day or two? Perhaps he was imagining things, his senses heightened after the night’s activities in Signe’s bed. Foolish. This girl was to wed Ulf; that was why she had come. And brothers were always loyal. Look at him and Eirik. No, he was wrong as usual, a numbskull. No wonder Margaret had dismissed him with a single glance.

The game was nearly finished; Somerled had five men left, Margaret her king and two guards.

“You’re trapped.” Somerled’s voice was calmly confident. He reached out toward the board, and quick as lightning Margaret’s hand shot out to seize his outstretched fingers before they could touch her king.

“No, I’m not.”

Somerled withdrew his hand slowly. The expression on his face was one Eyvind had seen before, and did not much care for.

“What can you mean?” The voice was chilly. “The rules are—”