Just then the thrall-girl returned carrying a serving board almost as big as she was. On it was an array of steaming dishes whose aroma filled the chamber in a most delicious way. There was some sort of pork dish, warm bread and hard cheeses, a soup that smelled worthy of the gods, and an assortment of curds glazed in honey. Einar clapped his hands in delight. ‘Your men must love you well, my lord, to provide them with fare like this.’

Osvald gave an ambiguous grunt in reply. ‘We know how to treat our guests, at any rate. . . Well, get on with it, you silly whelp,’ he snarled at the thrall-girl. She dipped her head nervously and set about serving the food.

Lilla was famished too, and tempting as it was to allow the interruption, she was determined to pin Osvald down. ‘Do we have an understanding? Will you honour the old alliance?’

‘Do we have an understanding?’ he repeated, his lips twitching in a smile. ‘I fear, not quite.’ His expression changed, his gaze drifting from her face over the rest of her figure. ‘I believe I shall need a stronger guarantee. Something that will cost you a little more than a few gold cups and pretty brooches. . . If you want an alliance, then prove it. I have no wife. You have no husband. Perhaps it is fate.’ He gave a soft chuckle that made Lilla shudder. ‘You want the war-host that’s sworn to me. Marry me and it’s yours.’

How could she have been so naive? How could she have come here thinking the goodwill of the past was enough to raise an army? The thought of marrying this pale streak of a man sickened her. Yet if this were a game of tafl, she would have precious few pieces to lay on the board. Powerful men were drawn to a woman’s beauty; it weighed in the balance against armies even. So it seemed. Was it worth giving up her body to this louche lordling if it meant winning many thousands to her banner? One body for thousands? Did she even have a choice now that Ringast was dead? Or was this the fate of even a woman as powerful as she had been – to sell herself like so much horseflesh? Certainly she had no desire to yoke herself again so soon, neither to this man nor to any other. And yet. . .

Her whirling thoughts stilled. ‘Where is the Aurvandil?’

‘The Aurvandil?’ A cloud of irritation darkened Osvald’s pallid features. ‘Erlan Aurvandil? What is he to the point?’

This obvious note of recognition sparked hope in Lilla’s heart. ‘Is he here?’

‘He was. For a time. But he left.’ Osvald scowled. ‘The Aurvandil is an ingrate. An arrogant son of a pox-ridden whore. An oath-breaker, a troublemaker. And a damned cripple! I’m well rid of him.’

‘He was one of my father’s most loyal men.’