Eyolf Sólhrafn must be at least thirty winters old, yet he has that kind of face and silhouette upon which years seem to pass unimprinted. 

By his clean-shaven cheek he seems to be in his teens, while those heavy and fleshy lips might well belong to a maiden. But his beak-like nose is gashed by an old scar and, above it, iron-grey eyes shine keen and slippery like pools of water shaded by an arched and proud brow, betraying his maturity. A man of striking contradictions: a renegade nobleman, they say, pursuing a sacred vocation... a highborn a bit too gaudy for his origins... a holy man a bit too well-versed in worldly ways... a do-gooder a bit too familiar with shady dealings. 

Now coy, now imperious, now sickeningly sweet, now arrogant, but always... always... with a mask on his face.

Who are you, Eyolf Sólhrafn?

I spot him in the orchard, admiring a young walnut tree in the company of Bragi, the host of today's religious ceremony, while his pet boar is dawdling at his feet. There's a jar with a thick red paste in his hands and he's filling a spoon for Bragi to taste.

“You've the makings of a business-leader, Bragi! Your knowledge of trees is impressive – I knew we had a savvy merchant in charge of our liquor imports, but seeing that you are an expert in the wares you trade explains your outstanding choice of wine!” He stoops to the piglet to feed it an apple from his hand. “I hope Gorm, your brother-in-law, acknowledges your worth.”

The young man clasps his hands together in constraint and gives a weak smile:

“Well, you know Gorm – he's always right.”

“Don't I? Six years business partners and quite a few arguments. I hope our meeting tomorrow will be of the peaceful kind.”

Bragi fidgets, tapping his foot as he takes a sip of wine. Eyolf, blatantly unaware – both of Bragi's gesture and of my presence – gets up from the ground, propping his hand on the man's knee as he does so. With a coquettish smile, he takes the spoon from Bragi's hand and sticks it in his own mouth:

“The distinguished guests at my Midsummer party will soon be buying your wine, your seeds, employing your expertise on tree-growing. Perhaps you might come to my little island earlier to show me how to tend to my cherry trees and... prune my rose bush.”

The young man hacks and chokes, spraying a few drops of wine on his sleeve as I step up to them. In the light of his reaction, the seiðmaðr's invitation catches a nuance I had not discerned a moment before.

“Eyolf Sólhrafn!” I blurt, my patience ending. “A word. Now.” 

I have no time for his vulgar frivolities.

Utterly oblivious to my barely-stifled anger – or, more likely, faking it to drive me out of my wits – he is walking as languidly as he can, still licking a newly-filled spoon of that sickening red sludge:

“Young Bragi has got potential, and I like keeping potent men close. Trust me, it's all part of my plan!” he winks.

His plan! It's like he knows what I'm about to accuse him of, and he's mocking me!

“Your campaign is going shiny well, Yngvar, wouldn't you say? The chieftains, the peasants - we have them all wrapped around our little finger,” he raises the said appendage, sporting a gem-studded ring ornamenting it. “You sway them with talks of honour, heritage, duty... and all that horseshit... while I enchant them – we two make the bestest of teams!”

Speak, Eyolf Sólhrafn, show me just how far your impertinence can go! He sticks the spoon in that red ooze and invites me to taste. Disgusting.

“Delicious!” exclaims he. “The rest of my gifts from Flatdalr will go to charity – too peasantly for my tastes – to give a glimpse of my generosity. I mean, the Jarl of Hladir (gods keep the bastard!) gifted me an island – now that's a befitting gift! Or that perfume I received from Queen Sigrid of the Swedes – resin, musk, rose water – oh, I felt like a queen myself whenever I wore it!”

This man... he's unbelievable... Does he ever keep his tongue?

I nudge him by the elbow to lead him inside the house that has been offered as lodging during our stay in Skiða, on guard to grab him at the faintest sign of panic.

And panic he does. For as soon as he lays eyes on the scene in the half-darkness inside, as soon as he understands what is about to happen, he startles and gasps:

“What's the mea...” while stepping back.

But I grab his elbow with the force of my stifled wrath. And Hakon, who is already inside, takes hold of his other arm, while Knut – who is standing behind a man crouched on the floor – sheds the lamplight upon the captive's face: it is the old man, the old crippled fighter, that Eyolf Sólhrafn had healed!

“What's going on here?” the seiðmaðr regains his speech. “Why have you this man cornered like a dog? Hildigunn?” he turns towards the woman sitting on a chair, his assistant, whose alarmed glance is trying to signal him something.

I order him to sit – push him in the chair – and he does, alarm in his tense frame and in his feet fretful on the floor beneath the fringes of his bright robes, but a mask of in-controlness in his demeanor.

“So,” Hakon steps forward to answer him, “I'm walking down the road and I meet this jolly-drunk man whistling and sprinting on. Why, it's Eyolf's now-happy-and-sound cripple! How's your leg, my good man? ask I. And guess what he answers... Sound as always! Never had a health problem in me life!”

“Oh, it hurt now!” the man whimpers, seemingly sobered up, and lifts pleading eyes towards Eyolf. “They's crippling me, lord... I mean, again...! Make 'em stop!”

“And when I bid him come with me and I set him on a face-to-face with your lass Hildigunn, it gets even more interesting: She's the nice lady who gived me the drink and the cane – and then the coin; we's business partners now, she say,” Hakon mimics the enthused tone of the drunkard. The drunkard fidgets towards the seiðmaðr:

“Forgive me, lord, but he say you's friends... I thinked yer friends know what yer up to!”

Eyolf Sólhrafn slaps the arm of his chair, teeth clenched:

“Kill him, cut off his tongue, or do whatever you will – just get him the fuck out of my face.”

I'm circling him slowly so that I am now behind him in the shadow. I lean forward to whisper in his ear:

“Kill him – for your crime? Silence him – to keep your secret safe? No, Eyolf Sólhrafn. It is you who shall answer for your vulgar trespasses.” I hear his breathing shaky, while I order: “Leave us!”