weep no more,” Olaf said very gently, “for I will presently prepare to journey towards Wendland.”
After the queen had left the room, both men were silent for a space. With a sigh, the king took up again his tablet of parchment, to continue the work which he had laid aside when Thyra entered. Holding the stylus in his hand, he looked at Thorgills. “My scald,” he said musingly, “it were a curious question to know what will please a woman. When my queen came to me, friendless, persecuted, and homeless, I made myself her lord and all my kingdom her home.”
“My King,” answered the scald, softly, as if debating within himself, “it doth seem to me that the things a woman most desires are the things she cannot get, or if perchance she get them, then presently she desires them no longer.”
Thorgills bent over his harp. “Thy queen grieves for her estates in a land where she hath no home. My young wife is well nigh starved with the hunger of her heart for the home where she hath no estates. But of this journey to Wendland, my King. There is Sweyn who is jealous of thy fame. There is Sigrid who will ever remember the blow of thy gauntlet upon her royal face.”
King Olaf smiled. “The journey to Wendland, Thorgills, is a little soothing tale, such as one tells the wailing child, to cease its cries for the moon.”
Thorgills rose to go. He too was smiling now, and he added softly: “Ofttimes, my King, when a
