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ran from the stable.
    Hild watched her go, trying not to mind. She needed Beyla to help her sort out the events in the hall, and to tell her how people had reacted.
    Fleetfoot nickered softly and nudged her head, turning it toward the stable doors. Light spilled through them, illuminating dust motes and reminding Hild that their days of galloping freely were numbered; winter would soon be upon them. She turned back to her horse. “You want a ride, don’t you?” When she pulled the bridle from the hook, Fleetfoot pricked up his ears and danced in his stall, making Hild laugh. She called the boy over to help her with the saddle and then rode out of the stable, taking the path to the Thordsby Gate, where the guards dipped their spears in acknowledgment. Because she was the king’s sister-daughter, it was Hild’s right to come and go as she pleased, as long as she kept to the patrolled lanes.
    As Fleetfoot cantered past, a slave girl, her blond hair in braids, jumped out of the way, spilling the contents of the bucket she was carrying. She said something that Hilddidn’t catch. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound nice. Hild should have reprimanded the girl for her insolence, but she didn’t care enough to go back. Now that she was away from the weight of her family’s disapproval, the bright autumn day reached out to her with open arms and the road ahead beckoned.
    In a rocky field beside her, the boys’ troop was practicing archery. She found her cousin Arinbjörn in the midst of the group and frowned when he raised his bow. Wasn’t it too high? She hoped none of the other boys were snickering at him. He might be the atheling, the king’s heir, but they wouldn’t hesitate to show their scorn. It was bad enough that his father had made him start training when he was younger than the other boys, but the fact that he wasn’t very good at it made it worse.
    She shook her head and looked down the road. Fleetfoot shook his head, too. He wanted a good gallop, the same as she did, but too many people and carts lined the way, and the field beside the path was too rocky. Far ahead, Hild could just make out the thatched roofs of Thordsby, the farm the townspeople would visit for the harvest festival, to celebrate the bringing in of the last grain. “Let’s wait till we’re at the farm,” she told her horse. “Then you can ride as fast as Sleipnir.”
    He tossed his mane in agreement.
    It turned out they didn’t have to wait that long. They were still halfway between town and farm when the road beforethem cleared. “Now!” she said to Fleetfoot, who didn’t need to hear more. Hild bent low, feeling the wind pick up her hair and send it streaming behind her like Freyja’s winged cape. Down the road and through the farm’s gates they went without pausing, then thundered across a field, cold air filling Hild’s ears and stinging her face.
    At the edge of the field, the ground was strewn with rocks and Hild slowed Fleetfoot’s pace. Reluctantly, they turned, Hild’s breath still coming fast, her ears aching from the wind that had filled them, her heart pounding from exertion, her exultation barely dimmed. Fleetfoot picked his sedate path back toward the farm buildings. In the distance, men were harvesting the golden grain, and beyond the buildings, she could see workers erecting logs for the huge bonfire that would honor the gods during the festival.
    At the gate, a rider sat watching them, but from this distance Hild couldn’t see who it was. As she neared him, the horseman started toward them. Garwulf.
    She watched him approach. Why was he here? He still hadn’t changed from his travel-stained clothing.
    As he got close enough that she could see his face, her spirits fell. The straight line of his mouth spelled disapproval. Was he going to admonish her, too?
    She looked away, her focus on the rows of stubble the harvesters had left behind in the dirt. Garwulf had every right to be angry at her for the position