Murdo took up his oar, and looked one last time to where Ragna stood; as the boat swung about, he saw her raise a hand to her lips, and then toward him in farewell-a brief gesture for him alone. He lifted a hand from the oar and returned her farewell, his heart soaring.

Until midsummer, he thought, feeling the delicious ache of anticipation begin again. He pulled hard on the oar, watching the slender white figure on the wharf until the black shoulder of the headland took her from view. And then, as Hin raised the sail, Murdo shipped his oar and filled his mind with Ragna's image even as the wind filled the white expanse of cloth.

Murdo stood on the clifftop, gazing down at Hrafnbu in the near distance. The sun was low, and the shadow of the long hill to the west cast most of the yard in darkness. There was no one about. Though all was quiet and, apparently, in order, the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

His mother, coming up behind him, saw him halt on the path. 'Murdo?' she said. 'What do you see?'

When he did not reply, she asked again, and this time he turned to her and said, 'Someone is at the house.'

'How do you know?' gasped Lady Niamh.

'Jotun is not here to greet us,' he replied. Turning to where Peder and Hin were working with the boat on the beach below, he shouted down to them, 'Peder, keep the boat ready! Hin, come with me!'

Niamh clutched at his sleeve. 'Murdo, take care!'

'I will, Mam,' he promised. 'Stay here with Peder until I return.'

'I will go with you.'

'Stay here, Mother,' he insisted, removing her hand gently from his arm. 'We will just go and see, and then come back.'

Niamh relented. 'Very well, but look you be careful, son.'

Hin joined them then. 'Follow me,' Murdo commanded, and the two of them set off at an easy loping run, skirting the path and coming at the house from across the empty field behind.

Niamh stood rooted to the clifftop, watching her youngest son as he ran, unarmed, into danger, and wondering when he had grown so tall and strong.

Peder called up from the beach to know what was happening, and she told him simply to wait, and then whispered to herself, 'Holy Michael, Angel of Might, guard my son with your fiery sword. Shield him, guide him, and lead him safely back.' She then made the sign of the cross, and folded her arms over her breast to wait.

Upon coming within shouting distance of the house, Murdo and Hin crouched down and proceeded slowly towards the first of the farm's outbuildings, alert to the slightest sign of trouble. They reached the tool hut without incident and, crawling cautiously around the side, entered the yard.

They halted at the edge of the hut, and waited for a moment, watching and listening. The house was quiet, and there did not seem to be anyone about. 'This way,' whispered Murdo and, flitting from the tool hut to the barn, disappeared inside.

The barn was dark and quiet, and Murdo had no sooner stepped inside than he caught a familiar, sick-sweet scent. Hin, darting in behind him, took a breath and whispered, 'Blood.'

Yet, there did not seem to be anything amiss. They moved silently to the great barn door, which was closed. Putting his face to a gap between door and post, Murdo looked out. The yard was empty still. He pushed through the breach and stood watching the house for any movement while Hin squeezed through behind him.

'They must be inside,' Murdo said softly. 'You stay here. I will go-'

He saw Hin's face freeze, and turned to see what had drawn his attention. Hanging on the door behind them was the body of a man. The wretch had been stabbed in the belly and chest, and then nailed to the door and left to bleed to death in agony.

Murdo moved to the corpse, stretched his hand towards a pale limb. The flesh was cold and hard, not like skin at all. He bent down and looked up into the dead man's features.

'It is Fossi,' said Hin, his voice hollow.

Murdo looked at the face, frozen in its final anguish, mouth open, eyes staring, and confirmed that it was indeed Fossi. The front of his siarc was black, and stiff with dried blood. There were wounds in both arms and legs and where the nails had gone in.

'He was still alive when they hung him here,' Murdo concluded sadly.

'What should we do?' asked Hin, his voice growing small and frail. Turning his eyes from the corpse, he glanced quickly around the yard.

Before Murdo could think what to say, there came the sound of a dog – half-growling, half-whining-as if the animal were being mistreated. 'Jotun!' whispered Murdo.

At that moment, a tall, fair-haired man entered the yard, pulling the resisting hound with a rope. He was dressed in leather breecs, tall boots of soft leather, and a tunic of undyed wool; he carried a stick in his hand, and every time Jotun tried to pull away, he struck the dog sharply on the back.

'You there!' shouted Murdo stepping away from the door. 'Stop that!'

The man spun towards the sound, took in Murdo at a glance, and said, 'Who are you to tell me what to do?'

'Let the dog loose,' Murdo said.

In response to this, the man, without moving, raised his voice and shouted at the house. 'Bjorn! Kali! Come here!'

A moment later, two men emerged from the house. Like the first, they were dressed in leather breecs and tunics; one was fair-haired, and the other dark, but both were tall and armed with swords and knives, the blades of which were thrust through their wide brown belts.

Hin took one look at the swords and backed towards the barn, ready to flee.

The two men regarded the newcomers impassively, but before either of them could speak, Murdo demanded, 'Who are you, and what is your business here?'

The dark-haired intruder answered. 'Keep a respectful tongue, boy,' he said quietly. 'What is your name?'

'I am Lord Ranulf's son,' Murdo replied, his voice loud in defiance. 'It is his land you are trespassing, and his hound you are beating.' Gesturing behind him at the barn door, he added, 'And it is Lord Ranulf's men you are murdering.'

'Bjorn! Do not let him -' the man with the stick began.

'Quiet, Arn,' the dark-haired man muttered, and stood eyeing Murdo cautiously.

'These lands belong to Prince Sigurd now,' the intruder told him, taking a slow step forward. 'We have taken them in the prince's name.'

'Jarl Erlend will hear of this!' Murdo charged. 'If you do not leave at once, I will go to the jarl and tell him what you have done. He will send his house carles against you.'

'No,' the one called Bjorn said, taking another step closer, 'I do not think he will do as you say. Hear now, King Magnus has taken possession of Orkneyjar unto himself and he has given the rule of the islands to his son.'

'Liar!' cried Murdo, anger rising within him like a tight-balled fist. 'Jarl Erlend would raise the war host against anyone who tried to steal these lands.'

The two fair-haired Norsemen laughed, but their dark-haired comrade gazed solemnly at the boy before him. 'I am telling you the truth,' he said. 'The jarl gave up without a fight. He and his worthless brother Paul have been taken hostage to the king's court in Norway. Prince Sigurd rules here now, and he has given the lands hereabouts to our lord.'

Murdo could not believe what he was hearing. How was it possible such momentous events should take place without his knowing?

'You are lying,' Murdo declared again. 'Who is this lord of yours?'

'Our lord is Orin Broad-Foot, advisor to Prince Sigurd,' Bjorn told him, taking another slow step nearer. 'He has gone to Kirkjuvagr to establish his claim of possession to Dyrness and its holdings. But he has commanded me to make an offer of peace with any who should come after.'