Bjorn did not share Rurik's opinion of their comrade. "You have Tynburgh," he said flatly. "Ivar has Derwent and Dufelin. And what do I have? It's true, I love the sea — the pull of the wind in the sail, the salt on my tongue — but a man must have a place to rest his feet when the voyage ends. I'll not return to York every time, not with Queen Sola watching us three like a hawk. The woman despises us, and never misses a chance to remind us of it. Her tongue's venom could sour a whole feast hall."
He bent down and scooped up a handful of dark earth. The soil was damp, cool between his fingers. He inhaled deeply, as though the scent itself might clear his thoughts.
"The longer I stay in the royal hall," he murmured, "the more I feel like a guest in another man's home. A stranger at his own hearth. No — it's time I found a place that belongs to me."
