Elmenham, 890

The whole of the table listened with rapt attention as young Eivor weaved her tale. The scarred drengr could scarcely believe it. Still, from their expressions of barely restrained amusement, it was evident what her audience thought of the young man at the heart of her story.

"You mean to tell me this pork belly faced Ivarr Beinlausi and lived to see another day?" said the man sitting next to the scarred drengr. He chuckled. "As if! The Sons of Ragnar would have eaten him alive!"

"My afi himself told me, and he was there," young Eivor answered. "He wasn't one to embellish the truth, especially when my father was concerned."

"So far, your sire is not exactly the most impressive of figures," another young warrior said. "His greatest feat so far is getting beaten up by a stronger man and escaping with his life!"

The whole of the table exploded in laughter at these words. The scarred drengr shook her head, watching the poor child's face get redder by the second.

"I was getting there!" Eivor said with some heat. "Jesus wept, but you're all worse than children."

That shut the drengir's guffaws rapidly enough. Eivor shot them a glare that would have withered lesser men.

"Now, where was I?" she said, rubbing her temple.

"Your father had just declared his intention to take the throne," said the scarred drengr.

"Right. As I said before, my father understood the meaning of duty, unlike others I will not mention. Someone had to take responsibility for East Anglia and—"

"Oh, are you telling the tale of how Father became king?" a young voice said, cheerfully.

Everyone seated at the table looked at the one who had spoken. The newcomer was another girl, perhaps two or three years younger than Eivor. Her blonde hair was done in a series of elaborate braids, but her manner of dress seemed more Saxon in origin. She offered them a radiant smile as she curtsied, blue eyes shining with mirth.

Eivor narrowed her eyes at her. "Eadith. You interrupted me."

"Of course I did!" the blonde child answered. "You were telling it all wrong, Eivor!"

The scarred drengr lifted a brow. "Wrong? How would you tell it, then, my little skald?"

"Everyone thinks Father fought to win a boring old throne," Eadith replied, "but he did it to earn Mother's hand and her heart!" She punctuated the last sentence with a dramatic sigh.

The scarred drengr glanced at the woman in question. The thegn's wife had remained behind to accommodate their guests and prepare the evening feast. She was a Dane woman in her early forties, a few strands of silver streaking the black braid resting on her shoulder. Despite the modest simplicity of her garb, she easily commanded the hall, directing servants and guests with the efficient manner of someone who had done this hundreds of times before.

"So you see, Eivor," Eadith continued, "it's not just a boring saga about politics and people fighting. It's a love story."

The scarred drengr fought an urge to laugh. Young Eivor, for her part, only rolled her eyes.

"It was an arranged marriage. I doubt that—"

"They fell in love while uniting East Anglia! Don't you know anything?"

"All good sagas have a bit of romance tucked in somewhere," the scarred drengr said, tongue-in-cheek. "So, sweet lark, how would you tell it? How did your father woo your mother?"

"Well," Eadith said, sitting down, "I have on good authority that he fell for her at first sight. I'm not just saying that because that's how all good stories begin. I'm saying that because it's true."

Before she could continue, an enormous cat jumped in Eadith's lap, making the girl giggle. The grey striped beast had clearly seen many winters: one of his ears was badly damaged, and a great scar ran over his right eye.

"Aghi, you silly!" Eadith said. "You startled me!"

"A fearsome beast, that one," said the scarred drengr. "He must have won many glorious battles in his time."

Aghi looked at her with one eye half open. Eadith petted his head. "Oh, Mother says he's blessed by Freyja alright. Aren't you, my sweet?"

The old tomcat looked about as sweet as a bear. Again, the scarred drengr stifled an urge to laugh. She reached to pat his head. The cat looked at her in lazy contentment.

"That's odd," Eadith commented. "Usually, Aghi doesn't like being touched by strangers."

"He should have tried to gouge out your eye by now," Eivor added, with one eyebrow raised.

"I've a way with beasts," the scarred drengr said. She thought of a loyal friend, long gone. Her feathered companion had left many descendants behind, thought none were as sharp as their foremother.

"Anyway," Eadith continued, stroking the formidable beast's fur, "it wasn't long after my father had announced his intention to become king that he began to court my mother…"