The Jarl’s sister laughed too, turning aside to beckon her favorite, Eric, to bring her own particular cup.
“Have thanks for the telling, Songsmith,” she said, and swung the horn lightly aloft in the graceful gesture of drinking to him. “Would it be to your mind now to tell us some tale of forest adventure?”
No word of comment! It was in accordance with her promise not to be offended, but Randvar discovered of a sudden that he would rather she had quarrelled with him. He did not answer her question, but busied himself drinking the wine that was offered him. When he had given the cup back, he said abruptly:
“It is to my mind to see first how this matter stands. Maybe you believe that because she was king-born, Ingeborg would marry Ring even though she had love towards Fridtjof?”
“I do not believe that she would have had love towards Fridtjof,” Brynhild answered calmly.
He felt himself growing angry as he asked her why not.
Her shapely shoulders rose. “For one thing, his manners would not be at all after her taste. He would think it big and manful to be careless about his clothes and his hair and such matters, and she would think it disgusting.”
A moment Rolf’s son was dumb, marvelling that a word-arrow could sting so; then, as blood to a wound, his temper surged into his face, till Eric thought it an imposing thing to step in front of his mistress. Immediately after, he was picking himself out of a briar-patch, a dozen steps away; and Randvar faced the Jarl’s sister, his voice deep with ire.
“Have you the intention to tell me,” he demanded, “that it is a woman’s turn of mind to care only about the cut of a man’s garments or the length of his hair? That a great love could not lay hold of her as a hurricane lays hold of an oak and shake down all little matters like acorns?” He folded his arms tightly across his breast as he waited for her answer, conscious that if she should shrug her shoulders at him again he would be tempted to shake her.
But she yawned instead.