Chapter Sixty

The diadem on top of the coffin was there for show. Beyla supposed it belonged to her mother now and yet she just knew it would end up on her head. At least she could be proud to wear it having gleaned that her other aunt was not as black as she was sometimes painted.

Miriam had broken down, devastated, as if she were only now realising it was true. Had she suspected otherwise?

“I don’t want to lose you too, Beyla,” she sobbed.

That was when she realised how well her father knew his wife.

She sighed. It was probably not going to be like that between her and Philip. Having met him now she simply found him weird, even though he wasn’t all that much older than herself. He had a beard of sorts, straggly and sparse, and she suspected a dye was involved. Surely hair that golden in hue wasn’t naturally occurring in any part of the known world? His eyes were a mixture of brown and green and always speculative when they looked at her.

Did he find her wanting or something?

Sigurd, her father’s