“If my King’s blood cannot show itself through a layer of deerskin, daughter of jarls, I hold it for a spring that is run dry.”
A wrinkle of displeasure marred the satin smoothness of her forehead. “That speech would make your fortune with my brother. Pray keep such word-flourishes for him. I would show you honor if I might. This empty forest life is unbecoming a man of your birth. You are welcome to join my following and make new song-endings in my household, if you like.”
His voice was more indifferent than formality prescribed, his bow less deep.
“With all thankfulness, I should not like it,” he answered.
Her frown was more than a wrinkle as she asked him, “Why not?”
“I do not lack reasons. One is that I think my life more full than yours, that is laid out in straight lines like an old woman’s herb-garden and weeded of all excitement. Another is that I do not think a man adds any honor to himself by following a woman.”
Again she was the only quiet figure amid a hubbub, the women crying out, the guards themselves growling remonstrance. She stood queenfully quiet, though her face blazed.
“Even churls are apt to behave with respect towards me,” she said, and the contempt in her voice was keen enough to draw blood in his cheeks. He answered in kind.
“I behave with respect when I give you the truth. Are lies more to your mind?”
The tumult passed into the more alarming accompaniment of silence. The flash of her steelgray eyes was as though they had drawn swords. From weapon-play Rolf’s son had never turned back; he faced her readily, his look giving back whatever it received.