Chapter Seventy-Nine

It was so much colder down in the dungeon. Miriam was concentrating so hard on not falling off the steps – the rope handrails had long since rotted away – that some of the fear for her first-born went unexamined. She longed for Ketil to scoop her up in his arms and carry her, even though she knew it would not be seemly. Even in the royal court long ago he had afforded her the dignity of walking.

What had Mistress Ford said? Things were not as black as she had foreseen. Then why had Beyla experienced false pain? They had always been a close family. Her own legs were trembling and one look at her husband’s set face had shown her he was not himself.

“What’s happening? I got here as soon as I could.”

Sigurd. Just hearing his voice brought her a measure of relief. They had shared so much that was bad in the past. Surely she could come through this, as well?

“It’s the King,” Njord told him. “It appears he has gone mad.”

Thank God for that sensible, calm and competent young man. Whatever his