Rikke held up a hand for silence. “I reckon a lot of folk would like to see you cut with the bloody cross as traitors and spies.”

She let the silence stretch, heavy with the weight of lives in the balance.

“But I’m minded to be merciful. We wouldn’t have hooked Black Calder

without you offering the bait, after all. You wandered into Uffrith so

you could tell him what we were about. Now you can wander down to Ostenhorm. Tell me what the Union are up to.”

This helping of mercy wasn’t at all to the menfolk’s taste. They could see past a man trying to kill ’em, but a woman tricking ’em was too much to stand.

“Thought you wanted peace with the Union?” grunted Hardbread. “And trade, and smiles.”

“I’ll smile easier knowing what they’re up to,” said Rikke.

“I don’t know no one down there,” said Corleth.

“Good a liar as you are, I’m sure you’ll soon make new friends.”

“What about my granny?”

“She really your granny?”

“She is.”

“I’m half-tempted to keep her here so she can make me soup.” Rikke sat back, considering. “But it seems a shame to split up a winning act. Cut ’em free, Shivers.” And he did, showing no sign of whether he thought it a good idea or a bad.

“Thank you, Black Rikke,” said Corleth’s granny, near kissing the floor. “You won’t regret this.”

“True.” And Rikke tapped her cheek. “I’ve seen that, too.”

“Soft,” hissed Isern, shaking her head, and she wasn’t alone in her opinion. Lots of grumbling. Some outright scowls. One man spat at Corleth’s feet as she walked out. It was a wearying business. Proving yourself once as a leader is never enough. You have to do it fresh with every choice.

A miserable crowd came next, kicked and bundled into Skarling’s Hall, forced down on the pitiless stones before her, chains rattling. Stand-

i’-the-Barrows’ men. Stripped of their armour of bones and with their paint all smeared off, they looked a lot less fearsome. One was trembling. One might’ve been weeping. Don’t matter how savage a face you show the world, few men dare look the Great Leveller in the eye once he comes calling. She felt the old tug towards mercy and sat back frowning in Skarling’s Chair.

“You bastards crossed the Crinna,” she said.

Their leader shuffled forwards on his knees, his chin near touching the floor and the lank hair hanging around his face. “We was invited, Great Queen,” he whined, speaking Northern with an accent which was an offence upon the ear. “We was invited.”

“Not by me,” she snapped, making him flinch. “Stand-i’-the-Barrows, a man the world will not much miss, planned to see how many of my bones he could cut out while I was still alive.”

There was a snivelling and a mewling, like she’d a pack of beaten dogs before her. She took a long, slow breath.

“But I’m not Stand-i’-the-Barrows.” She waved a gracious hand. “Suffering doesn’t make me smile.”