“They both would have,” Hakon said, his mind turning to Jarl Tore and his fondness for feasts and fine ale. “I hope you do not mind my asking, but how did Fynr die?”
She turned back to Hakon and studied his face with eyes that revealed both confusion and ire. “You would ask me that now?”
Hakon shrugged. “Is there ever a good time to ask such questions?”
Her hard gaze softened and she sighed. “No. I suppose not. He went to collect the tribute from the Sami tribes, as he did every summer. Only this last summer, rather than presenting my husband with pelts, the Sami came with spears and bows and knives, and they butchered my husband and his men.”
“Were they avenged?”
“Aye. As soon as my father heard the news, he brought his army against the Sami and killed those responsible for Fynr's death. Though he never found the bodies of Fynr and his men.”
Or he spared his daughter those details, thought Hakon grimly. “I am sorry for your loss, Astrid. Fynr was a good man.”
It was the worst kind of loss Hakon could think of, not only because of the love they shared, or the loss of their two offspring, who had never lived to see their third winters, but also because her husband's property could now be claimed by Fynr's brother, Ulf. In short order, she could be husbandless, childless, and homeless, unless she decided to marry Ulf.
A tear escaped her eye and trickled down her angular cheek. She wiped it away with the sleeve of her dress. “Thank you, Hakon.”
“What will you do now?”
She shrugged and shook her head, then wiped another tear away. “Forgive me.” She smiled to hide her embarrassment. “I will keep living on our farm, at least until Ulf comes to claim it or, if I am lucky, to hand it to me.”
“You will not marry him?”
Astrid kept her eyes on the hall. “No.”
If Hakon could have wrapped her in his arms then and there, he would have, but men were watching, and the last thing she needed were for men to get the wrong thoughts in their heads. Sigurd, too, was watching from his seat at the high table. And so Hakon simply held up his cup to her and smiled. “To happier times, then. May they come quickly.”
She clinked her cup against his and tilted it to her lips. “May they come quickly,” she repeated into her ale.
“Enough!” Egil smashed the table with his fist. His voice cut through the conversations like a fine blade through flesh, killing them in midsentence. All eyes shifted to him as he grabbed his walking stick and pushed himself to his feet. He then pointed his stick at Hakon Sigurdsson, who had been laughing at some joke. The laughter died on the younger man's lips. “I may be old, but my eyes still see and my ears, hear.”
“Sit down, old man.” Sigge called down the table, trying to dismiss him with the wave of his hand.
Up on the dais, Sigurd glowered but held his tongue, his eyes shifting from his son, who was obviously drunk, to Egil, who now leaned on his walking stick in the space that men had cleared for him. Hakon moved back to the dais and sidled into the seat beside Sigurd.
“You joke with your friends about my age,” Egil spat, “and how my memory must be failing me. You have all but said to your friends that I have lied about my deeds.”
“I was only having a little fun. I meant no harm,” called Sigge.
“Well then, you failed in that, for harm they have.” Egil jabbed his index finger at him. “You have trod on my honor, Sigge, and now I must regain it.”
Sigge looked at his comrades in disbelief, then back at Egil. “And how do you propose to regain it? By fighting me?”
“Aye, lad. That is exactly what I propose.”
Sigge's cheeks reddened. “I will not fight you, Egil Woolsark.”
“Before this goes too far, tell us what words you spoke, Sigge,” called Hakon to the young man. “If you can speak them to your friends and they were not harmful, then let us all hear them. Mayhap there is a joke in them that will amuse us all.”
Sigurd's son looked to his comrades, who suddenly found more interest in their ale cups and food.
“Let us hear them, lad,” called Hakon again.
“I said that Egil's mind must be failing him because the number of his exploits seems to grow every time we see him,” Sigge said into the silence of the hall.
“What else, lad?” Egil called.
Sigge swallowed, suddenly looking far more sober than he had when the exchange began.
“I said that I was surprised that at his age he could still drink as much ale as he does without pissing himself.”
The utter lack of respect in Sigge's words, especially for a fighter and warrior as renowned as Egil, sent a low rumble of chatter about the hall. It so stunned Hakon that, for a moment, he had no words for the young man. And so it was his father, Sigurd, who stepped into the word-fray.
“By the gods, but you are a fool, son. I should beat you myself for words like that, but I will leave that to Egil. Get your arse off your ale-bench. If you have not the guts to speak such words to Egil's face, then at least have the guts to face him in a fight.”
Sigge cursed and walked around the eating board to stand before the gray-bearded Egil. He stood almost a head taller than his opponent — though at the moment, he stood with his shoulders slumped in shame at having to go through with the fight.
“Come on, lad. Don't look so for —”
Egil never finished his comment, for just then, young Sigurdsson swung for Egil's jaw with his right fist. The move took Hakon by surprise, but not Egil. The crafty old warrior must have known Sigurdsson would resort to trickery, for he took a quick step backward and let Sigurdsson's fist sail past his face. Before the young warrior could regain his balance, Egil swung his walking stick up and into Sigge's crotch. The stick was made of hard oak and polished to a dark sheen, and it connected with force. Sigge grunted and grabbed at his testicles, before collapsing to the rush-covered floor and curling into a ball.
Egil lowered his weapon and stepped back. He spat into the rushes near Sigge's head and turned his gaze to Sigurd. “He better learn some respect before someone slits his throat.”
There was nothing Sigurd could say to that, for it was true. Still, the rebuke raised the color in his cheeks. Looking for a place to direct his wrath, he turned to the table where his son's comrades sat gaping at their leader. “You lads,” he roared at them. “Get him out of here. I don't want to see any of you, or him, back in this hall tonight. You have stained this evening with your antics.”
The men scurried to help their leader to his feet, but Sigge pushed them aside and scowled at Egil.
“Don't say a word,” Jarl Sigurd called to his son, “or I'll beat you myself. Now leave this place and save your temper for the morrow's sport.”
The young warriors scrambled from the hall under the malignant gazes of the other guests.
Sigurd sat back in his chair and cursed sourly at the retreating figure of his son. Below him, Egil was enjoying the back slaps of Hakon's crew, which brought a smile a Hakon's face. It had been many springs since Egil had dropped an opponent in a mead hall fight. He was proud of his old friend, and was thankful things had not turned more violent. Hakon called Egil's name and raised his cup to the old warrior. Egil returned the gesture with a toothless smile, then drank deeply of his ale.
Chapter 3
The competitions began early the following morning under gray clouds that hung thick and low, pregnant with moisture. The men gazed at the suspect clouds with bloodshot eyes and pounding heads, their bluster from the previous night forgotten now that rain threatened. More than a few commented on how much better they would be with a few more hours of sleep and some warm food in their bellies.
Sigurd ignored their gripes and organized the men into five groups according to their crews: Hakon and his crew, Sigurd and his crew, the crew of Halogalanders who had come with Astrid, Tosti and his warriors, and Sigge and his men. The chipper jarl then explained that each crew would pick among themselves
to compete in a series of sports: spear toss, axe throw, stone toss, glima, long-distance running, obstacle course running, and tug-of-war. Sigurd, Astrid, and Egil would judge the matches.
“Your king,” called Sigurd, “will not be spared. He, too, must compete.” The men howled with newfound spirit at the news, and Hakon smiled at their delight.
The spear toss came first and was foremost a competition of accuracy, though strength would play a factor as the men moved progressively farther away from the targets. There were five targets, and all five men would toss their spears simultaneously. The warrior who missed the target, or whose spear didn't penetrate the target, would be disqualified. After each successful throw, the spearmen were to move back ten paces and throw again until only one competitor remained.
“No offense, Jarl Sigurd, but even blind, I could hit a target that close,” boasted a man in Tosti's crew as he hefted his spear. This got a few “ayes” from the others, since the wooden targets stood only twenty paces distant.
“We shall see, Alf,” responded Sigurd.
Hakon's crew had chosen Asmund for this, for though he did not have Toralv's strength, he was more accurate, even at greater distances. The men lined up and waited for Sigurd to drop his hand. As they waited, the crews yelled their encouragements, goaded the competition, or wagered hack silver on their choice for winner. When Sigurd dropped his arm, the men jogged to the throwing line and tossed. The spears struck with a staccato of cracks. Thralls retrieved the weapons and the men moved back ten paces. The onlookers shouted, and Sigurd gave the signal again. And again, the spears struck home.
Asmund called to Sigurd, “I was hitting targets like this when I was but a beardless bairn.”
“You're still a beardless bairn,” Alf quipped as he stroked his long, gray-streaked chin-braids.
“Yeah, well, I heard your mother had a beard, which disqualifies you from this discussion,” Asmund countered, which got a few chuckles from the onlookers.
“Very well,” Sigurd interjected before the jibes turned more serious. “Move back another twenty paces. Now then,” he said when they reached their new spot, “let us see which of you is boasting after this round. Ready?” He raised his arm.
The men hefted their spears and squinted at the targets as the onlookers shouted their wagers, their jokes, and their comments. Sigurd lowered his arm, and the men tossed. All of the spears struck home, save for the spear from Sigge's hirdman. That spear glanced off the outer edge of the target and lodged in the soft turf. Moans and grumbles rippled through Sigge's crew, followed by the jingle of hack silver changing hands.
In the end, it came down to Asmund and Alf, as Hakon expected it would. The targets lay at eighty paces and looked like small coins in the distance. Asmund picked a blade of grass and tossed it in the air to gauge the wind, for at that distance, even the slightest breeze could shift the spear's trajectory. The men hefted their weapons and focused their eyes and minds on the targets. The crowd placed their final bets. Hakon looked on anxiously, for even though these were just games, winning came with bragging rights that would live on in the minds of everyone present, and such things were important for the reputation of the competitors, and that of their lords.
Sigurd dropped his arm, and the men threw. The spears climbed upward into the gray day, then arced down toward the targets. Almost in unison they struck, and for the briefest of moments, the competitors raised their arms at their feat. But then, Asmund's spear wobbled and came free. Tosti's men cheered as Hakon's men groaned.
The other competitions were equally competitive, each with their own memorable drama that the men would relive that night over their bruised bodies, bruised egos, and cups of ale. Hakon's man, Bjarke, won the axe throw, for few in the North were better with that weapon, while Hakon's massive champion, Toralv, won the stone toss, which, in truth, was more of a boulder than a stone. The running competitions went to two brothers in Sigge's hird, Arne and Rolf, whose names meant eagle and wolf respectively and who, all agreed, were aptly named. Sigurd's foul-mouthed warrior, Leif, won the glima match. He was not the largest man, but his combination of strength and quickness gave him the edge over Hakon's warrior, Bard.
By the time they got to the tug-of-war, it was late in the afternoon and the smell of pine smoke and boiled meat hung heavy in the air. The men were impatient to end the bouts and start the celebration, but not impatient enough to give up on the final competition. Boasts and jeers flew across the field, where Hakon's men gathered to take on Tosti's. Tired of being a spectator to the men's fun, Hakon joined his hird. They cheered their king as he dug his heels into the turf behind Asmund. At Sigurd's command, the rope went taut as the men yanked. Tosti's older men pulled with all their strength, but their age and lack of sleep proved no match for Hakon's warriors. The bout ended quickly, with Tosti and his men heaped in a mass of laughing bodies.
In the second bout, Sigge's half crew joined forces with the Halogalanders to take on Sigurd's hirdmen. Sigurd, too, joined the fun with a few boisterous boasts that had his men, and even his opponents, smiling.
“That man could joke his way out of a pit of snakes,” said Toralv appreciatively.
“If only his words could pull a rope,” added Garth, for Sigge's young men were quick and pulled Sigurd's men off balance as soon as Astrid's arm dropped to signal the bout's start. After giving some ground, Sigurd's men dug in and started to pull back. Now it was Sigge's crew and the Halogalanders who started to slide forward.
Near the back of the line, the leader of the Halogalanders began to snarl. His name was Hemming, and he had been oath-sworn to Fynr. “Not another ell, Halogalanders!” he called. And just like that, the men from the far north tightened their grip and dug in.
“On my call,” Hemming shouted, “heave!”
And the Halogalanders heaved as one. There was a barely perceptible shift in Sigurd's line but enough to give their opponents hope.
“Heave!”
This time, Sigge's men redoubled their efforts. Sigurd's men dug in their heels. Their muscles strained and their faces flushed, but the combined force of their opponents' pull yanked them forward involuntarily.
“For Fynr! Heave!”
With a roar, the Halogalanders hauled back on the rope, and the front of Sigurd's line collapsed. All but Sigurd, that is, who somehow managed to maintain his footing, and thus his dignity, in the face of his men's defeat.
“Let us hope they've used all their energy on the Tronds,” said Bjarke.
“Have heart,” said Garth, who was tapping his hand on his thigh in anticipation. “No one can move Toralv.” He patted the champion's shoulder. “He is a boulder among pebbles, eh Toralv? Besides, Sigurd's men have softened them for us, like mallets beating frozen cod. See how they lie there?”
Which was true. The crews lay on the ground, sucking air into their lungs. Some rolled tired shoulders. Others armed sweat from their faces despite the chill in the air. But then, there was no figuring the will of men. It was a formless energy that could far outweigh skill or cunning or strength when it welled up in someone, as it just had in Hemming's crew.
“You're a genuine word-weaver, Garth,” Toralv joked. “Next you will be thinking you are some sort of skald.”
“I could live with that,” responded Garth. “Mayhap when the shield wall with you louts loses its luster, I will take my words to distant halls and collect my silver, with a fair lass to keep me warm. Does not sound half bad, really.”
“You cannot sit still long enough to enjoy a lass on your lap,” called Bjarke, which received some nods of agreement from the men and a glare from the leg-tapping Garth.
“Come, men,” called Hakon with a grin. “Let us show these young ones how to pull.”
Hakon's crew strutted over to the rope — now warm with the friction of men's hands — and took their places in line. They rolled their shoulders and jiggled their arms to loosen muscles, then lifted the rope and planted their feet on the trodden ground.
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“We promise to go easy on you, my lord,” called Hemming as he and his men took their positions.
Sigurd took his spot at the center of the rope and raised his arm. The air rang with jokes and wagers and shouts of encouragement. The men leaned back and pulled the rope taut.
Sigurd's arm fell and the fight was on. Instantly, Hakon could feel the muscles in his arms and shoulders and back tighten with the strain. He was vaguely aware of his men grunting, of voices urging each other to pull. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, then trickle down his temples. Across from them, Hemming called through gritted teeth for his team to heave, which suddenly gave Hakon an idea.
“On my word, pull!” Hakon yelled.
On the other end of the rope, Hemming barked. “Ready?”
And a split second before he could give his command, Hakon barked his order. As one, they yanked on the rope, pulling their opponents off balance.
“Again!” Hakon yelled, but before the word “pull” sprang forth, Hemming screamed, “Heave!” And with that yank, even Toralv gave a step.
“Toralv, you bastard,” Hakon grunted as sweat dropped into his eye. “Backstep. Now!”
The giant had the rope wrapped around his waist and clutched in both hands. “We move as a line, or we don't move,” Toralv grunted.
“You have the strength of ten men. Pull, you bastard!”
And with a growl, Toralv pulled and stepped.
“Again!” Hakon called, and again Toralv met Hakon's challenge. Sensing what was happening, Hakon's men yanked with Hakon's call, and their opponents gave.
“For Fynr!” Hemming called, and the rope burned in Hakon's hand as it slipped forward again.
Every muscle in Hakon's body screamed. His hands from gripping, his arms and shoulders and back from holding and pulling, his legs and ankles from planting and resisting. Sweat seeped into his eyes. The old wound in his thigh throbbed. How easy it would be to let the rope go and end the fight. After all, was it not just a game? But he was not about to give this victory to Sigurd's ill-mannered whelp, even with a fine man like Hemming pulling with him.
War King Page 4
