Chapter 7: The Midwinter Moot

The Midwinter Moot met in the great hall, and every bench was full.

Sixty lords of Norvald sat in their furs with their hands on their knees, and the smell of wet wool and woodsmoke filled the air.

Elior stood at the back wall beside Sigrun, where the duke had told him to stand.

"Do not speak unless I call you," Teodric had said at dawn, in the passage, with his hand still warm on Elior's neck.

"They will be looking for a reason."

"I understand."

"You do not.

"But thank you for saying so."

Now the duke sat on the high seat with his hands loose on the arms and his face closed.

Rolf Vesterhal stood in the middle of the hall.

He was a heavy man with a red beard and a voice made for shouting across fields.

He had a fur-trimmed red coat, and a ring of forty armed men behind him.

"Three autumns ago," Rolf said, "my brother's wife buried a child of two.

"Last winter I buried my niece.

"This winter I have lost eleven more in my villages, and the south sits in its warm white city and drinks wine."

A low growl went around the benches.

"We took the Ford, and the treaty says we are paid.

"Where is the grain?"

"It is coming," Teodric said.

"It has been coming since autumn."

"And meanwhile you keep a southern pup in the east room, cousin, and feed him the broth of my children."

Rolf swung around and pointed.

"There he is.

"The pledge.

"The only part of that bargain we hold, and he sleeps through a door in your own wing."

Elior felt every eye turn.

Sigrun's hand closed on his sleeve.

"Hold," she whispered.

"He wants you angry."

"Let the Moot ask what is the use of him," Rolf shouted.

Keep reading free with an account. Start The Grand Duke Gave the Hostage Prince the Only Key from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.