CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Princess Aslif Sviggarsdottir tasted salt on her lips, but she refused to wipe away her tears.

No one shall think I’m ashamed to weep for my brother.

The funeral pyre flared red against the grey waters of the distant firth.

No, she was not ashamed. Just broken-hearted. In a world of heroes, none had been so fearless as her brother. She had adored Staffen since she was a little girl, and he already a young man. And he adored her adoration. But she was not blind. She knew he was proud. Too proud for all men to love him. She had forgiven him that. It was only the brittle pride of a boy, hiding behind a handsome face and a strong frame.

Still, he’d always had a tender way with her. It was he who named her ‘Lilla’, the name by which most folk knew her. She liked it a deal better than the name her parents chose.

Now she wept for him. Wept as the smoke engulfed his comely face for ever.

The drums beat their doleful rhythm. The godi’s cries grew in fervour, as the greatest lords of her father’s council looked on, features hard as idols. Down the slope, a ring of spearmen cordoned back the vassals and thralls of the Uppland halls, come to watch their king’s heir take the road to Hel.

She watched his beard shrivel in the heat; watched his fair skin blackening. For the first time in five years, Lilla was glad her mother was not alive. Not to see this day.

The godi wailed on at the dusk.

‘Enough!’ The exclamation jolted her from her grieving. Her father’s voice. The godi’s chanting ceased. All eyes went to the king. ‘You’ve said enough. Let him burn.’

‘The words must be spoken,’ insisted the godi, ‘if Hela’s gates are to welcome your son.’

‘My son needs no announcing to the Queen of Hel. If there is no welcome for him in that place, theirs is the dishonour, not his.’

The godi shuffled about, unsure what to do. Then, making up his mind, he gave a servile bow and backed away.

Lilla felt a hand slide into hers, soft fingers threading her own.

‘It’s the smell I cannot abide. Like some swine-roast at a feast. How it lingers in the nostrils.’ Lilla turned. Her eyes met with the emerald gaze of Saldas, her father’s wife. The queen’s dark beauty, suddenly so close, startled her despite her grief.

‘Forgive me, I shouldn’t think such things.’ Saldas smiled, and then noticing Lilla’s tears, her voice softened. ‘Why, child, you are crying.’ She pulled Lilla’s head to her bosom. Lilla’s nostrils filled with perfume, spicy and subtle. She tried to pull away, but Saldas held her. ‘Such a sad business.’ She stroked Lilla’s hair. ‘You two were so alike. This beautiful hair. Like honey. . .’ She trailed off, fingers still caressing her. ‘You must take comfort from those who love you. Your father, your brother. . .’

Lilla glanced at the only brother left her now. Sigurd was the image of their father, down to his dark curls and the brooding lines about his mouth. She felt a pang of sorrow for him. His life would change now. But was he ready for it? She wondered what he was thinking. His eyes were dry, gazing at the smoke curling high to the east.

Perhaps it’s too hard to watch our brother burn.

Saldas lifted Lilla’s chin and gazed deep into her eyes. ‘. . . And, of course, you have me.’

‘I know, Lady Saldas.’ Lilla’s throat was tight from crying. ‘I thank you for it.’

‘You must call me “mother” now. Haven’t I told you this?’

‘Yes. Mother.’ Lilla had come to hate the word. It was a betrayal. A lie. And yet, I still say it. She was twenty summers old, Saldas hardly twelve summers more. Whatever Saldas was to her, it was not a mother. Yet there was something about her that made Lilla feel small. Something that shrank her will. Made her obey.

She pushed away, with more resolve this time. The queen yielded.

A gust of wind goaded the pyre. The flames roared in reply.

‘Where is Bodvar?’ It was her father again, as if the surging fire had ignited some fresh impulse. He looked about, and Lilla saw his eyes, usually so steady, were filled with grief. And anger. ‘Come – where is he?’

‘Here I am, my Lord Sviggar,’ croaked the voice of the Earl of Vestmanland, separating from the king’s retinue. Earl Bodvar has aged of late. His braids, usually as rusty as his voice, were showing a few threads of silver, and the lines on his face had deepened.

‘I want you to find whoever did this.’

Bodvar hesitated, confused. ‘Forgive me, lord. I understood this was an accident.’

‘An accident?’ scoffed her father. ‘A king’s heir is never killed by accident. Someone is responsible for Staffen’s death.’

Her brother Sigurd answered in Bodvar’s stead. ‘Father, we scoured those woods for days. We found nothing.’

‘Then scour them again! Bodvar – this was your land. You will live in those woods till you find whatever did this. Beast or man – whatever stole my son, you bring them to me!’ His voice dropped to a mutter. ‘His blood will be avenged.’

Lilla noticed the earl’s face bristle. Bodvar was a stubborn one, and not afraid to speak his mind, not even before a king. But he must have thought better of it, instead bowing his head. ‘I will, lord.’

‘Lord, you know this isn’t the only unexplained death in your realm of late,’ said Finn, the amiable young warrior appointed her father’s bodyguard. ‘There are stories—’

‘I know.’ Sviggar’s brooding eyes passed like a ghost over his son’s body, hardly visible now beneath the hungry flames. ‘I know.’