The song-maker’s smile came readily as he glanced across at the high-seat of the northern wall, which had been held during Starkad’s time by that warrior-bishop of Saint Olaf who was known as Magnus Fire-and-Sword, but which now awaited in emptiness the pleasure of the new ruler.
“It will be rearranging them in earnest this time, Jarl. Lord, is it possible that you do not feel the excitement in the air as every person here draws breath with hope or fear of your rule? The force of their eyes upon you is like the beat of waves upon the shore.”
As brand from brand, the face of the Jarl’s son kindled; but before he was ready to reply, the Songsmith’s glance had flown past him and lighted on the eastern door.
Through the broad portal was advancing a train of court-women, walking far apart because of the trailing length of their silken robes, stately matrons with towering head-dresses, and white-armed maidens whose bright tresses fell free from golden bands, and moving before them—the jewel for whom all their splendor was but a setting—Brynhild the Proud, bending now her queenly head to the greeting of some old warrior, now yielding a smile to some young courtman’s eager salute.
It was the first glimpse Randvar had had of her since that day in the forest, so rigidly had mourning custom secluded her in her bower. As a man who has lived long on a memory, he drank thirstily of the wine of her beauty, felt it course hotly through his veins. He was still leaning forward when he felt the Jarl’s gaze upon him, and knew that his face had betrayed him. In confusion he dropped his eyes.
Helvin said dryly: “It is seen that you did not reject my sister’s favor because you did not find her good to look upon, Songsmith.”
Randvar overcame enough of his embarrassment to mutter that no one could find her otherwise.
The Jarl’s son shook his head as he watched his sister advance. “Here you may see how much man differs from man. To Olaf, Thorgrim’s son, yonder, she looks like the goddess Sif after the dwarfs wove her hair of red gold, as no doubt he is telling her now with his smile. To me”—he turned wearily as her approach made rising incumbent—“to me she looks only like a rune standing for a life I hate.” Rising, he faced her with cold civility.
Splendid in her feasting dress of shining gold color, she came towards them, bent in a deep courtesy before the high-seat, mocked the lowliness of the salutation by the loftiness to which she rose.
“Brother,” she said, “will you grant me a boon which I would beg of you?”