Sigrid’s most vivid impressions of her capture and captivity had been of hands. She, a lady, a daughter and sister of knights and cousin of a king, had never known how free men’s hands could be with a woman they did not respect and whose family they did not fear.
Eirik had heard much laughter since he had been captured — none of it friendly, of course, but at least the frank, respectful laughter of men who knew that but for the fickleness of fortune, they and he might have been standing on the opposite sides of the bars. Eirik had taken many hostages and won many ransoms in his time, and he had laughed the same bold laughter himself.
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