A Stranger at the Hearth by Katherine Buel

Author:Katherine Buel [Buel, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Katherine Buel
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

REGIN TOOK IN SIGURD’S worn, travel-stained clothing and the bare-backed, stodgy roan that spoke of his troubles. He eyed the new pink scar on Sigurd’s left cheek. The scar would fade, but the memory might not. “You know something of the world now,” he said.

“Yes,” Sigurd replied.

“How did you decide on your path?”

“I did not want to go back.”

Such simplicity. “Why not?” When Sigurd frowned as though he had not really thought about it, Regin prodded, “You did not want to be like a horse-boy to a lesser king, a beggar in his hall?”

Sigurd’s face darkened. “No.”

“Then let us make you into something else.”

As Regin led Sigurd over the bridge and up the path to the house, he watched the boy’s eyes range over the twisted carvings along the roof peaks, over Lofnheith’s birds. A blue-grey falcon circled, screeching.

“Why do they gather there?” asked Sigurd.

“My sister has a strong will.”

This clearly startled the boy. “Your sister?”

“They are her birds.”

“They just … stay? And the hawks don’t kill the songbirds?”

“As I said, she has a strong will.”

They entered the packed-clay yard and Sigurd slid off the roan, pulling his saddlebags down from where they had rested on the horse’s withers. His gaze traveled from the stable to the dairy and other buildings, then past the wattle fence to the green pastures and cropland.

“This is so remote,” Sigurd observed. “Yet many men must work here.”

Eight, in fact, outcasts, guilty of murder or other malice, but Regin knew how to manage them. He said simply, “I make use of those who come to me.”

Hama emerged from the stable. Without a word, the wiry old man took the reins and led the animal away.

Regin led Sigurd along the gravel path to the stone porch steps and up to the door. The boy seemed inclined to linger over the door’s swirling ironwork, but Regin ushered him inside.

In some ways, the house looked like any other. The central hearth was a raised square of dressed stones, where a fire burned under a blackened iron cooking pot set atop an iron rack. A few chairs stood about, a table, some cushions and baskets. The floor was spread with fresh rushes. But there was its strange emptiness and there was the owl, its pale face swiveling in the rafters.

“This chamber will be yours,” said Regin, opening one of the doors that lined the west side of the house, calling Sigurd’s attention away from the owl. “Once you’ve cleaned up, come eat.”

Soon after, with the curling ends if his hair still dark from washing, Sigurd sat across the hearth fire from Regin. Steam curled from the fat-bellied pot, and the scents of lamb and garlic made Sigurd’s mouth water. Turning a clay cup of warmed mead in his hands, Sigurd glanced up at the owl. The hearth light reached the heavy talons curling over a rafter but faded against the large, pale body.

Regin, weary of the boy’s silence, prompted, “You are not angry.”

“About what?”

Regin shook his head. “I cannot tell if you are a young fool or wise beyond your years.

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