Funeral
The crowd pressed along the sides of the great square of Ringerike, silent and respectful. The funeral cortège passed by, flanked by guards, resplendent in oiled hauberks, and pulled by a pair of white geldings draped in opulent blankets of ruby red, hemmed with gold thread. The only sound was the slight creaking of the wheels rumbling across the ground. Behind, head lowered, Ásta walked with a measured step, proud and undaunted. She looked every inch a queen, regal and majestic, her gown of simple, shimmering ivory. A long way behind, not wishing to divert attention from his mother and her grief, Olaf walked, Magnus by his side together with a further honour guard of royal huscarles, axes sloped on shoulders, helmeted and in full armour. In living memory, none of Ringerike had wi
