The funeral procession emerged between the great, grassy barrow of Himling and the empty cenotaph of Hjar. Smoke rose from the treasure-fires which were always tended on top of the mounds under which the cynings lay.
Everything had been done properly. That morning Kadlin had gone with Wealtheow to the house of the dead at the edge of the cemetery. The body had been washed and dressed, placed in the oak coffin. The physical work had been done by slaves. Heoroweard had been dreadfully cut about, and he had been dead for some time; directing their ministrations had not been easy. Wealtheow had been strong. With no hesitation, she had placed in her dead husband’s cold mouth the hacked piece of gold that would pay Heimdall, so that the watchman of the gods would allow Heoroweard passage across Bifrost to Asgard.
Everything was ready. The grave was well furnished with expensive things from the imperium: two buckets and a ladle in bronze, two fine glass cups, one with the image of some imaginary big, spotted cat, and a wallet of coins bearing the heads of long-dead emperors. The grave goods were suitable for a warrior of the Wuffingas. They would have been quite acceptable for one of the Himlings themselves.
Heoroweard had never cared particularly for material things. Wealtheow had added things more to his liking: a leather bag stuffed with lamb chops, flatbread and apples; next to it, a big flask of mead.
Allfather, but Kadlin would miss her brother.
The coffin was shouldered by ten men. Paunch-Shaker had been a big man. Behind the deceased came the cyning Isangrim, then the rest of the Himlings: Oslac, Morcar with his son, Mord, and then, a little apart, Dernhelm.
Kadlin would not think about Dernhelm now. To do so would somehow tarnish her grief.
The cortège reached the grave.
Dernhelm had been Heoroweard’s friend. It was right he was here, but Kadlin wished he was not. She had not looked at him yet. What did it matter how he had changed? Her brother was dead.
The bearers, all strong young men, were struggling to lower the coffin into the grave. The ropes tore at their palms. The coffin swayed in its descent.
‘Just as awkward in death,’ Wealtheow murmured.
All the family smiled, except Leoba. Perhaps, Kadlin thought, a woman has to suppress too much to become a shield-maiden. Or it could be her sister blamed herself for not saving their brother. All at once Kadlin both pitied and envied her sister. It would be good to be a shield-maiden and take revenge on those who had set the murderers on her brother.
The coffin was in the grave. The bearers had retrieved the ropes. The family were on one side, the spoil from the digging on the other. Isangrim, the Himlings and their followers stood at one end. The other mourners — his hearth-companions, more distant relatives, friends and, finally, free tenants — drifted around the heap of earth to the other.
‘Allfather, listen to the request of your descendant.’ Isangrim seemed to have shrugged off something of his age. ‘Heoroweard died a heroic death, fighting barehanded against murderous men with sharp steel in their hands. He fought to protect his loved ones and his people. He did not die like a dog in the smoke of his own hearth. No straw-death, but the death of a hero. Send the Choosers of the Slain. Let them take him to Valhalla. He was my eorl, let him become yours.’
There was something awful about these Himlings, Kadlin thought. They naturally saw themselves as akin to the gods. A couple of clicks of the Norns’ spindles those years ago, the Wuffingas would have ruled, and the Himlings served them.
‘Heoroweard was …’ Isangrim moved into a lengthy speech of praise, no doubt heartfelt enough.
There was movement in the people behind Isangrim. Two strangers were working their way to the front. Kadlin’s irritation turned to alarm when she saw the gryphon-head brooches which proclaimed them Heathobards. Allfather, not again. Not like at the Nerthus ceremony.
The Heathobards stopped by Dernhelm. One of them whispered to him. He made a gesture that said, ‘Later.’ The Heathobard took his sleeve, spoke urgently. Dernhelm nodded. He blew a kiss to the coffin, looked at Heoroweard’s family, and bowed. For a moment his eyes met Kadlin’s. Then he turned. Followed by a shorter warrior with the end of his nose missing, Dernhelm walked away.
Kadlin could not have been more angry. A typical Himling, putting his own concerns before everything, even a funeral. The same selfishness as before. He had taken her virginity, fathered her child, and left; all without caring. Now he could not even wait until the end of his friend’s funeral. If she had to speak to him at the funeral feast, she was not sure she could contain herself.
In her fury, Kadlin had not noticed Isangrim had stopped speaking. The cyning took a gold band from his arm and dropped it into the grave. Hathkin was first of the family to make a last offering: an amber gaming piece. It was heart-rending to remember father and son sitting together playing. When it was her turn, Kadlin dropped in the bone comb Heoroweard had seldom used as a child. Her brother had always been untidy. Wealtheow was last. She gave back the ring Heoroweard had given to her.
As they moved off to the feast, above the muted talk Kadlin could hear the awful finality of stones and soil rattling on the lid of the coffin.
XXVI
The Ouiadoua Bank off the Southern Shore of the Suebian Sea
Maximus kept close behind Ballista and the Heathobard who was guiding them. It never failed to surprise him how quietly the big Angle could move in the dark. By contrast, those following behind were like a herd of bullocks. Still, the wind from the sea was loud in the trees. It would take the noise off behind them, away from the men they were approaching.
It had been a wild thirty-six hours since the Heathobards had brought them the news. They had slipped away from Heoroweard’s funeral and ridden down to the port. While Castricius had rounded up the crew, got the Warig fitted out for the sea, Maximus had gone with Ballista to see Ceola. It had not been an easy meeting. The young duguo charged with the defence of the coast was Morcar’s man. He had been sitting drinking with his father Godwine. The old eorl was not close to Morcar, but it was evident he had no great love for Ballista either. As luck would have it, Ivar Horse-Prick was drinking with them. In the end, Horse-Prick had made them see the urgency. Isangrim would be caught up in the funeral feast for the remainder of the day. It could not be discussed in the council of the cyning until the next morning. By then the opportunity would be lost. Eorl Godwine had announced that neither he nor his son would hinder their departure. Weightily, he had pointed out the threat of outlawry they were bringing on their heads. He and his son might feel the displeasure of the cyning, but it would pass. Isangrim was a fair ruler. He had said nothing specific about those who failed to stop men who acted without his sanction.
Ivar Horse-Prick had accompanied Maximus and Ballista to the ship. When the three had gone aboard, they had found that Castricius had her ready. Food and water had been stowed, all clutter cleared away. The men were armed and waiting at their benches. Zeno, Amantius and the slaves had been left ashore. With no commotion, they had cast off, and soon left the coast of Hedinsey behind.
The wind had shifted that morning and set in the north. It had blown steadily on their larboard quarter as Wada the Short held their course to the south-east. They had sailed the rest of the day and through the night. At some point the next day they had sighted the chalky cliffs of Cape Arcona. Knowing the rocky spit which ran below the surface to the east, Wada the Short had given Arcona a good berth. The light had been failing when they reached the great Ouiadoua Bank, pulled into one of its many inlets and hauled the Warig up on to the fine, white sand.