The next morning, news came that one family’s longhouse had set fire by a torch from the light procession. The flames had passed too close to the straw thatch roof, lighting it and mercilessly burning their humble home to the ground.
“The Queen is cursed,” the ill-fated family had declared, spreading the rumor like a raging inferno. Neighbor to neighbor it was whispered that Queen Maud’s spirit had been rejected from Valhalla, because she had been sympathetic to the new, Christian faith. In her anger, they said, she had burned the family’s house down and would continue to haunt Bergendal until a proper Norse burial had been performed. She needed an escort to usher her to Valhalla, and until that happened, no one was safe.
“Did you hear what they are saying, Lucia? Did you?” Olav barged into her room red-faced with the guard who had delivered the gossip. “They say your mother is cursed. Cursed! How dare they?” His hands flailed as he spoke. “No one grieves the loss of Maud more than I, and no one will be allowed to tarnish her memory!” He clenched his large hands into tight fists like he always did when he was angry.
“What about me? I grieve her,” Lucia said.
He slowly swiveled toward her, his hazel eyes alight with rage. “What did you say to me?”
“You said no one grieves the loss of Mother more than you. I grieve her, too,” she said, glaring at him. She was done being the obedient daughter, constantly yielding to her father’s whims.
His eyes flared, and then he picked up a vase and flung it against the wall, causing it to shatter into a thousand pieces. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she shrunk where she sat on her bed.
But he did not stop there. Next, he grabbed the goblets on the longtable and cast them to the floor, followed by another vase and anything else he could get hold of. She cupped her hands over her ears, the crashing sounds so loud it frightened her. Has he gone mad?
Olav had never been a loving father, and had even broken her arm in a fit of rage when she was just eight. She had hated him ever since and now with her mother gone, who would be there to protect her from his rage? She thought about Soren, her betrothed, and although she did not know him well and felt somewhat uncomfortable in his presence, she was looking forward to marrying him. Anything would be better than this.
“Father, stop…please…” she said.
Olav stormed toward her and slapped her across the cheek. His angry hand stung, and she wanted to scream at him for hurting her, but she knew better than to stand up for herself or to let emotion show on her face. It would only infuriate him more.
“The problem with you is that you think you are so important. As the future queen of the Northlandic Kingdom, you need to set your own needs aside and set the needs of your people first. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!” He ran his long fingers through his salt and pepper hair.
Lucia’s tears fell onto her silk bed sheets. “I…I am sorry, Father.” But as the words fell out of her lips, they tasted like dust and mold. Was she truly sorry? No. She had only said it because she felt guilty and because everyone, her included, would surrender his or her will to the king’s. However, now that she would be queen, she would no longer need to submit anything to him.
And she would not be silenced anymore.
“I am queen now! Get out of my chamber!” she yelled, slamming her delicate fist into the bed, puffing out her chest.
Olav stood speechless for a while, probably wondering how his daughter had the audacity to command him, the king. But then as they glared at each other, Lucia witnessed as her father’s shocked and livid expression melted into a pensive one. Had he, in his grief-stricken state, not until this moment, realized he was to become her inferior? Surely, he must have remembered, although his blank stare suggested otherwise. Queen Maud had Aesira blood—the blood of the gods—running through her veins. Lucia shared that same blood, but King Olav did not. It was her fate to be queen, a fate the Norse gods had spun for her, a fate not even her father with all his might could usurp.
“You are an enigma, Lucia. One moment you are as sweet and innocent as a bird, and the next, you are like a vicious dragon, spewing fire. You need to work on your temperament before you become Queen.” He stormed out of her chamber.
When I am queen, I will keep the temperament I prefer.
* * *