He spotted Ulf and Arne waiting close by and frowned. “You think I need protection in my own village?”
“No,” said Björn. “We think your wife does.”
“But…”
“And the boy.” Björn gestured towards Ulf and Arne. A small figure crouched on the floor between the men, both of whom had their swords drawn, despite the boy’s hands and feet being shackled. Neither of the men met his gaze.
“He is just a child,” Tormod said. “He cannot be more than eight years old. Can he really have done such a thing?”
“Håkon has accused him. And the boy has not denied it. The only thing he has said is your wife’s name,” Björn said. “And his hands and clothes are burned which proves that he set the fire.”
“No,” said Tormod loudly. “It means only that he was there when the fire was burning, and that he wishes to speak to my wife. Nothing else.”
Tormod hoped his words turned out to be true, although he wondered why. It would be no great loss to him if the child were killed, would it? And yet somehow he felt that he must save the boy if he ever wanted to earn his wife’s trust.
The noise from the main hall grew louder and louder with every passing second. The doors to the hall banged closed at regular intervals, and it was clear that a large crowd awaited him. The sooner the matter was dealt with, the better, although he feared what the outcome of any trial might be. He could wait no longer for his wife to be ready.
“Ragna,” he called through the door, “when my wife is ready, bring her to theThing.”
“Of course,herre.”
A great lump of rock settled in the pit of Tormod’s stomach. If both Björn and his aunt were calling himherre, then something was very wrong. Perhaps settling here was a mistake. Perhaps they should just go home. He set his teeth. No. They had won this land fairly. The Britons had abandoned it long before they arrived. They had no more right to it than he and his men.
At home, all he had to look forward to were scraps from his many older brothers. Or to remain in service to another as awarrior his whole life. That was not what he wanted. Learning that was the only positive thing to come from his first marriage. He was a good leader, he could make difficult decisions.
Tormod drew himself up to his full height as he strode out of the main hall, across the common land to where the Thing site sat on its small promontory. Arne waited at the stone causeway which led across the circular ditch and Tormod handed him his weapons, then he crossed the stone causeway, entering the circle with as much authority as he could muster. Many of the villagers were standing around the outer edge of the circle, on the far side of the ditch. Only himself, those who were giving evidence, and the accused would cross the causeway itself. As he looked around the shocked and angry faces of his villagers, who yesterday had been celebrating his wedding, he mentally ran through his options for dealing with the matter. None of them sat well with a child so young.
Björn had followed close behind him, and he watched as brought Ulf crossed the causeway, bringing the boy into theThing. The eyes of every villager were on that small, lonely figure.
Tormod lifted his hand and everyone quieted instantly. He hoped this situation would not work out the way he feared. “Who accuses this boy?” he called out.
Håkon handed his weapons to Arne and crossed the causeway, coming to stand in front of Tormod.
“I do,” Håkon stated. “Last night one of my fields burned, deliberately set on fire. This morning I found the boy hiding in the byre with the animals. He set that fire. He has burns on his hands and clothes which prove it.”
The crowd shouted and yelled, all demanding justice.
Tormod raised his hand for order and turned to Håkon. “Did you see him do this thing?”
“No,” replied Håkon, narrowing his eyes at Tormod. “But there was no one else there. And who else apart from the Britons would have wanted to burn my field?”
A general shout of agreement went around the circle. Clearly the man had not expected to be questioned and thought that a sentence would simply be handed out—but Tormod could not help seeing the boy as one of Aoife’s people. That, coupled with the fact the boy was similar in age to his dead wife’s son, and Tormod was struggling to believe a child had managed to do this alone. And for what reason? Why not run away? Why wait to be found? How had he got there in the first place?
Tormod held up a hand again, and the circle fell silent as the villagers waited for him to speak. “He’s just a boy. Can one small child really have done so much damage all by himself? Where were our guards? And what does he have to say for himself?”
“Nothing,herre, save for the Briton’s name.” The distaste in Håkon’s tone was clear. Tormod glared at him.
“My wife’s name?” Tormod said. He caught and held Håkon’s gaze until the farmer was forced either to look away or risk challenging Tormod.
Håkon looked down, his shoulders slumping as he realised he had angered his jarl. “Your wife’s name,herre,” he finally mumbled.
So, the situation was not just about burnt fields or captured boys. He had known his choice of wife might cause some concern, although he had hoped for some time for her to settle before facing an obstacle such as this. However, they couldn’t possibly think she had anything to do with it. Especially on her wedding night.
“How can you be sure this child was responsible?” Tormod was careful to emphasise the word “child.”
“His burns,” Håkon said, quickly trying to re-establish himself. “And he is one of… them. A Briton.”
“I see,” Tormod replied, sitting down without taking his gaze from Håkon. “The boy is not even old enough for arm rings, and yet he was able to either cross the spit alone, unseen by any of our guards or else he sailed or rowed across Loch Garw and set fire to your field alone. He was not, however, capable of leaving the field before burning his arms. And where is his boat?”
