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Scyld roused with the rest of hall, neither early nor late. He stretched and dressed, mentally reviewing the night before and planning ahead for the day, as he did every morning.
Unlike every other morning though, his review did not begin with a larger survey of the hall but jumped straight to the personal details. He still was not sure what Rowenna had meant by leaving him to dance with Léof, if she meant anything at all. Somehow she must have read in his tone or face his less-than-honest intentions. He did not like being so easily read. It was unnerving. Dangerous.
Perhaps he ought not to spend so much time in speech with her.
But he had no will to follow through with such a plan. If he simply said nothing of his past, she would hardly guess it.
These thoughts were driven from his mind as he descended the stairs by the sound of harp music. Nor was it music such as Eodwine played; it was fairer, deeper, sadder somehow. It made Scyld feel as though maybe there was hope for him yet, as if a promise was hidden in those fair notes.
The music ended, the spell was lifted, and Scyld realized that he had stopped on the stairs. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear the queer mood from his head. Unsettled, he made his way to a table near the harpist.
“Who is he?” he asked the men seated there.
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