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she’d put him in. She wished she’d thought more carefully about that earlier,back when serving him before Mord had seemed like a good idea.
    When they were so near to each other that she could no longer avoid it, she looked up again. “Garwulf,” she said, and swallowed.
    “My lady.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment, then met her eye. “You ride well, my lady. But if there had been a rock or a fallen limb, you could have been thrown.”
    “Fleetfoot and I ride here often,” she told him as he turned his horse to ride alongside her. “They keep the way clear for us.”
    “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know. That’s good, then.” He reached out to stroke his own horse’s neck.
    She watched him surreptitiously, unsure of his mood. His mail shirt jingled softly as he rode, but he said nothing. Then he turned to her.
    “What happened in the hall today—” He stopped.
    She looked down, preparing for his words. If it hadn’t been humiliating enough to have her uncle misunderstand her and her mother upbraid her, now she was about to be chastised by the man she planned to marry.
    “Hild,” he said. His voice was so low it rumbled in her chest.
    She forced herself to look at him.
    “I thank you for what you did, my lady.”
    She stared at him in surprise. When she realized hermouth was open, she snapped it shut. He had ridden all the way out here to thank her?
    “May I accompany you back to the stable?”
    She smiled. “Of course you may.” She couldn’t wait to tell Beyla.

FOUR
    O NCE G ARWULF LEFT THE STABLE , H ILD STAYED WITH her horse. He might have already been thoroughly brushed, but she needed to think, and currying Fleetfoot was a good way to do so—even if it did get dirt on her best gown. She hoped she could get the gown into Unwen’s hands for cleaning before her mother or one of her aunts saw the mess she was making of it.
    She was glad she was wearing it, though. She and Garwulf must have looked impressive riding back from the farm together, he in his warrior’s garb, she in the red gown that drew attention to her dark hair. She had seen people watching, and she’d kept her back straight, her pace measured, as she’d asked Garwulf question after question about his raiding party, keeping the conversation going all the waythrough the gates and back to the stable, despite his willingness to ride in silence.
    At the stable, he had called a boy over to help her unsaddle Fleetfoot, then given her a low bow before hurrying off. As soon as he was gone, she sent the boy away, pulled out the comb, and considered her next move. When it was time to serve the mead again, she would follow precedent precisely. She’d forgotten that her uncle still considered her a child. Once she’d proven that she knew the rules, she could start to break them. If she was going to influence his opinion, she would need to go about it with greater subtlety than she’d shown that morning.
    Her thoughts flickered back to Garwulf and she smiled.
He
approved of what she had done.
    As for her uncle, she had time, and plenty of it, on her side. Unless the queen left her bed, Hild would be the only one to pass the horn in the mead hall. Not until her cousin Arinbjörn married would another woman take her place, and that wouldn’t be for years.
    All his life, her uncle had been guided by others. His mother, the old queen, had advised him from the time he was crowned as a very young man. When he married, his mother stepped aside, making way for his wife, as was expected. “A queen must serve the mead to her lord first, and be ready with advice for him,” the saying went. But when the queen had become ill and people were distracted by their worry about her, Bragi had slipped into the king’sconfidence, taking the place that should be held by a woman. He’d elbowed out Ari Frothi, too, whose age brought him wisdom. It wasn’t right. And more than that, Hild told herself, it wasn’t good for the kingdom.
    She laid her