Ørlygur spoke with studied harshness, fearing to betray what he really felt.
“Get you gone, then, every man of you, and the sooner the better.”
It struck him that he had not seen old Ossa, who had served him for fifty years, and had been like a second mother to his children. He found her in the kitchen, preparing his meal.
“Are you not leaving too?” he asked bitterly.
“I’m too old to go about the country seeking work,” said she. Her voice seemed richer and softer than usual as she spoke.
“If it is only that, I could have lent you a horse,” returned Ørlygur, with a note of sarcasm in his voice.
“Nay, I’ve no wish to be leaving Borg. ’Twill not be of my own choosing if I should. And maybe I can be some use a bit yet. As long as I’ve but my keep and needn’t be a burden.”
There was a slight pause.
“Ossa, what is it? Why are they leaving the place?” Ørlygur asked, with some constraint.
“Master’s the best judge of that, I take it.”