Stirring before the great awakening, the southern slopes had thrown off their coverings of snow, and bared their brown bosoms to the fresh wind. The pools of the muddy road gave back unclouded blue, and blithe as the call of the robins in the sunny meadows were the voices of the young courtmen who had met at a crossing of the ways. Winter maintained its hold only on the face of Mord the Grim, as looking back from the crest of the hill he was riding over, he saw that the centre of the group was the Jarl’s tall song-maker.
Some of the young nobles had set forth to shoot ducks from the broken ice of the river, and were unfolding their plans to the forester’s sympathetic ear. Some were seeking ground for a horse-race, when the sod should be firm enough, and were demanding of the favorite that he use his influence with the Jarl to have a feast given in honor of the sport. And others, who knew that Rolf’s son was now on his way home to the Tower to take part in the wedding-feast of his foster-sister, were chaffing him about the effect his fine clothes of buff leather would have upon such Skraellings as he might encounter. The chatter came to an end only when the hoof-beat of two horses was heard on a road near by; and one youth surmised that it must be the bridegroom and the priest, whom Randvar was waiting to join; and another stepped out to look around the curve, vowing that if Bolverk’s dress was too fine it should be subdued by a rain of mud. The youth stepped back, however, with a shrug.
“Only Brynhild’s pet page; and behind him, Olaf the French. Tighten the peace-bands on your sword, Songsmith!”
A third gave Randvar’s ribs a nudge with his elbow.
“No better than wasted breath is that warning!” he laughed. “As though the Songsmith had any cause now to be jealous of Olaf, Thorgrim’s son!” So the laughter and chaff went up boisterously.
The Songsmith who had stood quietly listening, save for an occasional word of comment or banter, became yet more silent, and gave his entire attention to remedying a mistake in the lacing of one of his high Cordovan boots.
On his bent head, half the hail of jests continued to fall; and the other half flew on to meet the boy just turning into the road, fresh as a sprouting grass blade in his green livery.
“Lucky Bolverk, to be allying himself with such splendor!”
“Picture the cub doing the honors from the high-seat!”
“Are you going to give the bride away, young one?”