The wedding had been planned for the next full moon, before the autumn viking. But that was not to be. Before nightfall a messenger rode in from the north. He spoke behind closed doors, first to Ulf and then to Somerled. Their father was dead; pressing matters must be attended to at home. Ulf exchanged the briefest of courtesies with his bride-to-be. There was no time for sleep. He took a crew of Magnus’s men and set off at dawn in the Sea Princess, which the Jarl had generously made available. It was a long weary way up the coast to Halogaland. Ulf did not ask his brother to accompany him. It was understood that they could not be there in time to see the old man buried. The journey, Somerled told Eyvind coolly, was just another strategic move in Ulf’s own game. It was no gesture of filial piety, no sentimental voyage of farewell.

“You’re wrong, I’m sure,” Eyvind had protested, taken aback by Somerled’s calm acceptance of such a loss. “Ulf spoke of your father with great respect, and with affection.”

“Typical.” Somerled’s tone was flat. “You measure others by your own yardstick. Ulf cannot wait to cut himself free. He has the light of far horizons in his eyes, and will let nothing and no one stand in his way.”

Eyvind looked at him. “That last part sounds more like you,” he observed cautiously.

“He is my brother, after all,” Somerled said dryly. “See if I’m right.”

Ulf was gone from one full moon to the next, and longer. Margaret’s father, Thorvald Strong-Arm, could stay at court no longer, for there had been attacks on his borders. He went home to attend to his affairs, but Margaret did not go. She preferred to remain in the south, she said, and wait for Ulf. Surely he would not be much longer. And she liked court; there was so much good entertainment. Margaret played games; she went riding; she made poems and conversed with visitors. If she was put out by the delay, she gave no sign of it.

Often enough her companion was Somerled. This admirable display of brotherly loyalty did not go unnoticed; folk commented on Somerled’s kindness in ensuring his brother’s betrothed did not feel neglected in Ulf’s absence. As for Eyvind, he thought he saw a certain look in Somerled’s eyes, and its reflection in Margaret’s, although the two of them were skilled in keeping their thoughts to themselves, one of many qualities they appeared to share. But Eyvind held his tongue. He’d been wrong often enough before, and he was probably wrong again. Nobody else seemed concerned. And it wasn’t the sort of thing one could mention to Somerled, since his only response would be to raise his brows and make some withering remark.