Chapter 23 Brynn #3
Brynn might not have thought anything of it but for Tullia’s words to Cenric last night—Did you know he considered taking your wife for Tolvir?
Brynn couldn’t prove it, but in an instant, she was certain that Tullia had told the truth.
From the way Cenric inhaled sharply, he came to the same conclusion.
“Lord?” Brynn squeezed Cenric’s arm in warning.
Ovrek cocked one brow.
“There have been bad omens for serpents lately.” Brynn looked pointedly to the great corpse that lay on the sand, the creature whose likeness adorned the Valdari king’s banners. It was a risk, but she hoped Ovrek would catch her meaning without taking offense. “Do be careful.”
Ovrek threw back his head and laughed, one of the great belly laughs that seemed to be a staple of his personality. “You have a way with words, sorceress.”
Around them, the air seemed to shift. With the return of Ovrek’s laugh, the men seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Except for Cenric. His jaw clenched, pulling her closer.
“Let it go,” Brynn pleaded.
“The insult!” he hissed.
Brynn grabbed the collar of his tunic, pulling his head down so she could whisper in his ear. “If he mentions it again, I’ll deal with his men so you can fight him, but just this once, let it go.”
Cenric exhaled a long breath. He was still angry but let her have this one.
The king was too busy answering questions from his men to notice their conversation. They surrounded him, visible relief in having Ovrek among them once again.
Berdun led the way with several others, heading back toward Istra at a jog. The people needed to see Ovrek, to reassure themselves that he lived. Their whole group began to move onward toward the town.
Ovrek stopped abruptly, his back to her. “Lady Brynn?”
“Yes, lord?”
“You will look after Tullia?” Ovrek’s voice did not falter, but his entire spine remained rigid as he awaited an answer.
“Yes, lord,” Brynn promised. “I will look after her.”
“Good.” Ovrek marched away with his men and this time didn’t look back.
Instead of attending the Althing, they attended two funerals. It took the better part of a fortnight to see to the many preparations for the burial of three great ladies.
The head of Wulfwir was left on a rocky expanse of beach to be picked clean by seagulls and crabs. Once the flesh was gone, Hróarr wanted to mount it on the front of his ship to use in place of a wooden wolf’s head.
The cleaved head of Jormanthar was massive, even in half, and had been left where it fell. Once the creatures of the shallow water finished their work, Ovrek wanted to move it to the place of the Grandfather Yew.
The body of Jormanthar had been too large to move and had begun to stink. So, men had hacked it to pieces and dragged the pieces down the beach. There it had been rolled into the waves where it would be food for the creatures of the deep.
As much meat as there was, eating the flesh of the ancient monster was too much for even the pragmatic Valdari.
Brynn couldn’t have said why Ovrek trusted her, but he charged her with overseeing Tullia’s burial. Vana was tasked with tending Sifma and Gistrid.
Cenric and Hróarr had to move both Sifma and Tullia. Ovrek wouldn’t let them take the armor off, either, so Tullia was that much heavier.
Cenric showed Snapper Tullia’s corpse and the two of them spent an entire day with Kalen, searching the campground of the Althing.
They returned with her missing bracer and helm in the late hours of the evening.
Cenric told Brynn they’d been taken by a stripling youth who broke down crying and swore he hadn’t known whose corpse it was.
That was believable enough. It had been dark, and everything had been in chaos.
Cenric returned the stolen armor. When Ovrek demanded to know who had taken it, Cenric truthfully answered that he didn’t have a name.
Tullia was buried in her late husband’s lamellar armor, upright in a wooden seat with her eunuchs standing beside her, held up with wooden posts. The sword she had wielded was bent and placed in her right hand. The shield was split with an axe before being leaned by her feet.
A young mare was killed and set before her, along with two hunting dogs from her household, and a cat she had brought from across the sea on one of her journeys.
Precious stones, a silk robe, a small box of polished wood containing amethyst, a jar of perfume, combs, eating knives, and a cask of mead were buried with her.
It was the burial of a warrior in every way, worthy of a jarl. Some people questioned Ovrek’s decision, but no one dared question it to his face.
When going through Tullia’s belongings to find goods for her grave, Brynn came across a child’s toy horse carved from soapstone. It was tucked in a chest inside a leather oilcloth along with several dried daisies and a baby-soft lock of black hair.
Brynn made sure the oilcloth pouch was placed in Tullia’s lap under her left hand, the one not holding the sword.
Ovrek sacrificed his great, profane ship to be Sifma and Gistrid’s grave.
The vessel with its mast and ribs made from the Grandfather Yew was dragged to the hillside, into a massive trench.
The ship alone was a lavish act of mourning, a sacrifice of wealth greater than most people would hold in their lifetime.
Brynn had to wonder if sacrificing the ship at the heart of the past days’ bloodshed was an act of penitence. She doubted Ovrek would ever admit to something so humbling, but the king did seem repentant.
Sifma and Gistrid were buried reclined on the deck with Gistrid by Sifma’s feet, denoting their rank. Sifma’s body had been badly burned and little besides her skeleton remained.
Vana and the servants still did their best, but Sifma’s clothes had mostly melted into her charred flesh. They had to wrap her funeral clothes over her feasting garb.
Sifma was buried with lush furs, arm rings, a magnificent silver torque not unlike the one Vana wore.
The deck of the ship was neatly arranged like a small house with chickens, a pair of oxen, three ewes, and jars of salt.
Sifma’s spinning wheel and distaff were placed beside her, as was her loom, much of her jewelry, and a mirror of polished brass that had been a gift from Tullia.
A magnificent tapestry depicting the tale of the First of Fathers had adorned the inside of Sifma’s house. That was pulled down and used to decorate the edges of her grave, the painstaking detail and meticulous designs buried beneath the earth.
Gistrid was buried with just a few of her own goods surrounding her, the cushions and furs that had adorned her house.
The graves were sealed at midday when the sun was at its brightest, ensuring that the spirits of the dead would not be wandering and become lost. Drums beat to draw the attention of the gods, hopefully to earn their protection over the dead.
Brynn stood beside Vana, watching with the other onlookers as Ovrek and Tolvir cracked open casks of ale and poured them out over the freshly turned earth.
Vana wept silently, Hróarr’s arm around her.
The tall mercenary glared at Brynn every so often, but he had been doing that ever since Ovrek had asked him to take Tolvir onto his ship.
Hróarr had agreed—it wasn’t the sort of request that could be refused—but he hadn’t wanted to.
Brynn admitted that some dark, spiteful part of her enjoyed that.
Cenric watched beside Brynn, a jarl now as well as an alderman. Guin leaned against her feet, and Esa and Kalen stood at their backs.
It was difficult to reflect on the past few weeks. Nothing had changed and at the same time, everything had.
Brynn squeezed Cenric’s hand as the drums continued to beat.