At the feast that afternoon, Hakon was given the seat of honor. As custom dictated, Athelstan sat to his right, Bishop Frithestan to his left, both on chairs of equal height. The king's huscarles sat about them according to age, rank, and prestige, the most renowned among them sitting just to Athelstan's right, and the others fanning out from there. To the bishop's left sat the high-ranking religious leaders, also following their own special ranking system. The rest of the townspeople sat at the tables scattered across the field.
Servants delivered platters of venison, pork, chicken, and fish to the tables, along with steaming bread freshly baked for the occasion. Hakon grabbed greedily for the food but was thwarted by a swift smack on his arm.
“Grace first, young master. Then food.” The bishop's eyes warned.
The eating ensued as soon as the bishop completed his prayer. Hakon stabbed at a piece of chicken and plopped it unceremoniously onto his dish. This he supplemented with flat bread and baked apples. Around him the conversation swirled, but Hakon paid no notice—the chicken's juicy wing had captured his undivided attention.
It was Byrnstan's thunderous belch that finally turned Hakon's mind to the present setting. “I should learn.”
“What's that?” asked another of Athelstan's huscarles as he reached for a piece of bread.
“That red meat assails my belly. I have never been able to eat it.”
“And yet, still you try. Your stubbornness will be your downfall, Byrnstan,” jibed a straight-faced Athelstan.
Byrnstan brushed the comment off with a grunt.
“What news from Eire, my lord?” one of the huscarles asked. The king had received a messenger from the western island that very morning, but had not yet publicized the news. His councilors leaned in closer as their curiosity waxed.
Athelstan shrugged and finished sucking the meat from his teeth. “Nary a word. Eire is still in chaos after Guthfrith's return to Dubhlinn last year. I have been informed, however, that a large fleet of Danes has sailed forth from Limerick.”
“Are they headed this way?” There was no mistaking the concern in the bishop's voice.
Athelstan shook his head as he chewed a mouthful of meat. “They were headed northward. That is all we know at this point. We should receive more reports in the coming days.” He shoved another chunk of venison into his mouth with his eating knife and began to chew.
“I hope they do come our way,” chimed in Hakon, whose tongue grew bolder the longer he sat among the men, “so that we can fight them.”
Athelstan's long brows bent downward. “Do not be so eager to fight, lad. You will have plenty of opportunity for it later.”
“He cannot help it, my lord.” Byrnstan belched again. “He's a Northman. Fighting is in his blood.”
“It is not!” protested Hakon. “I was cleansed today. Bishop Frithestan told me so.”
The table roared with laughter. Even Athelstan could not control himself and guffawed. Hakon looked around, delighted that he had caused such an uproar, but a little embarrassed that he did not know why.
“I wonder if your true father has your sense of humor, lad.”
“I wouldn't know. We rarely spoke.”
“I hear your brothers are vying for his realm.” The bishop's reflective comment broke the uncomfortable silence that followed Hakon's comment, but failed to lift the uneasiness that had settled along the eating board.
“Father, please. Those are just unconfirmed rumors.”
Hakon, who had been finishing off the remainder of an oat cake smeared with honey, stopped eating at the bishop's comment. “What of my brothers?”
Athelstan poked at another piece of meat and lifted it carefully to his plate. “It is nothing, Hakon. We have heard some reports from the North.”
“What reports?”
“Two of your brothers were fighting.”
“Which brothers? Why would they be fighting?”
“If the story is true, your brother Erik had been sent by Harald to collect taxes from Bjorn's kingdom of Vestfold. But Bjorn, who normally paid the tribute to King Harald himself, apparently did not trust Erik to deliver it, and refused to relinquish it to Erik's hands. So Erik beset and killed him.”
Hakon stopped chewing. “Killed him?”
“What a trivial reason for death,” the bishop broke in. “I will never understand the Northmen's penchant for kin-killing, nor their thirst for bloodshed.”
Byrnstan spat a chicken bone onto the ground. “Hey Hakon, if you are lucky, your brothers will kill each other off, and there will be none to fight when you return to claim the High Seat.”
“But I want to fight for the High Seat.”
“You want to fight your own kin?” Frithestan was incredulous.
Athelstan held up a silencing hand, then patted Hakon's shoulder. “Fear not, lad. You can be sure that, even if your brothers have killed each other off, there will be a multitude of warriors, chieftains, and unrightful kings vying for your father's realm. There will be plenty of bloodletting for all who care to partake.”
Hakon smiled the smile of a boy who did not know any better.
Beside him, the bishop frowned. “Do not smile at the thought of killing, Hakon, for it is an unchristian act, and one for which you will surely be accountable when Christ returns again.”
“Well,” offered Athelstan in Hakon's defense, “at least we can be safe in the knowledge that the lad's soul now belongs to the Almighty, and that he will be fighting in the name of Christ.”
The bishop relented with a sigh. “In that you are correct. And if the truth be known, I look forward to Hakon's quest for the High Seat. If he succeeds, he will be the first Christian king of the North. With luck, he may even turn those pagans toward the one true God.” The bishop crossed himself.
Athelstan hefted his drinking horn to his foster-son. “To the first Christian king of the Northmen.”
“To the first Christian king of Northmen,” chimed in the others as they raised their horns to Hakon, who blushed at the sudden attention.
The first Christian king of the Northmen. Indeed, the words had a magical sound that conjured a vision of himself on the High Seat, girded in gold and silver, with huscarles, nobles, and bishops seated about him, just like Athelstan. He, Hakon, would be a king unlike any that had gone before.
A grin rounded his cheeks. Yes, he thought excitedly. I will be the first Christian king of the Northmen.
Chapter 5
“Get him, Edmund! Knock him off!” the crowd yelled.
The boy swung at Edmund's legs with his wool-tipped branch. Edmund parried the blow and swung downward at the boy's head. At the last instant, the boy jerked his head sideways. The blow nicked his right ear. The yells from the shore suddenly increased in pitch, then died down as the boy carefully stepped backward, out of Edmund's range. Sensing victory, Edmund inched forward and feinted low at the boy's left knee, then came around with his branch and caught the boy's right shoulder before he could evade. Startled, the boy lost his footing on the slick log and plummeted headfirst into the icy water below. The fight was over before it started.
There was silence as the group searched for another challenger among themselves, but no one dared fight the champion, especially in such conditions as those that day. Snow had fallen the evening before, covering the log in a thin layer of ice that required incredible concentration and balance just to stand on it, let alone fight on it. To make matters worse, the water flowing five hands below the log was ice cold and could be the death of anyone that remained in it too long.
“Hakon! Are you not willing to knock Edmund from the log?” Louis wore a huge grin as he prodded his foster brother.
Hakon shot him a warning glance, but the damage was already done. Others nearby heard Louis' words, and fueled the fire with chants and verbal prods of their own.
Edmund smiled wickedly. “Yes, Hakon. How about a go?” Edmund stood proudly on the log, legs apart, the branch held like a walking staff in
his right hand. His long blond hair, disheveled from his last bout, seemed to be standing on end. Something in his look, and the way he tilted his head, made Hakon's blood boil.
“Hakon! Hakon!” the boys cried.
Hakon looked around at the boys who egged him on, and at the girls who stared, wide-eyed and expectant. There was no choice; pride and honor dictated that he fight. Silently cursing his misfortune, Hakon walked to the water's edge and grabbed the branch from the loser's water-chilled hands. He carefully rewrapped the strips of wool around either end. As he did so, his eyes caught a flash of green, and he turned, seeking its source. There, among the girls, stood Aelfwin in a green cloak of finely-woven wool. Her dimples creased as she laughed and chanted Hakon's name with her friends. He quickly turned away. It was one thing to fight Edmund in front of all these others, and to face the embarrassment of yet another cold bath. But to have Aelfwin witness the loss would be … devastating.
The boys continued their chant as Hakon stepped onto the log. Across from him, Edmund crouched, ready. He looked like he belonged there, like a natural extension of the wood, and Hakon was overcome by the futility of his situation. This was Edmund's kingdom. He governed here and he exacted punishment on those who dared defy him.
Steeling himself, Hakon worked his way out onto the log, careful to avoid slipping on its slick skin of ice. Edmund held his ground, eyeing his challenger confidently. When Hakon came within striking distance, Edmund lashed out at his left knee. Hakon stepped backward, avoiding the blow. Then forward. Edmund swung again. Hakon parried the blow, then brought his branch upward to block Edmund's downward stroke. Wood smacked on wood. The boys backed off to gather themselves.
The fight had begun. Hakon's reality collapsed into a world that consisted of only his opponent and him. He no longer saw the water below or heard the cheers and calls of the crowd on the shore. Aelfwin, Louis, and all the others had vanished from his mind. He saw only Edmund with his whirling pugil branch, and the mocking smile plastered on his face.
Edmund swiped at him; Hakon swiped back. Both boys took glancing blows, neither serious enough to knock the other off. Hakon waited patiently, searching for an opportunity to attack. But there was none. Edmund was a master at keeping low, defending himself against the swipes of taller boys. Hakon had to get lower, or he would suffer another loss.
“Come on, Hakon. Attack me. Or are your limbs fettered by fear?” The words shot from Edmund's mouth like spit.
Hakon remained still, concentrating on his foster brother's movements.
Edmund's face grew red. “Well, come on. Are you afraid of me?”
Suddenly, Edmund thrust forward, swinging his branch at Hakon's head. Hakon ducked, hoping that Edmund's momentum would carry him off the log. The ploy failed. Edmund's swing was too controlled, and he stopped it before he lost his balance. Nevertheless, he left his right side open. Hakon counterattacked, jabbing his branch hard at Edmund's ribs. Edmund blocked the jab at the last instant but momentarily lost his balance. Before Hakon could take advantage, Edmund scooted out of his reach.
Edmund regrouped, his smile gone. Hakon gripped his branch tightly and prepared for the onslaught that was sure to come. Crouching even lower, Edmund inched forward and lashed out with renewed fury at Hakon's ankles and knees. Hakon parried the blows as best he could.
“You're going off,” Edmund hissed fiercely. “Just like the others.”
Hakon backed away, closer to the shoreline. If he reached it, he would lose. His mind raced. He had to think of something quickly. Edmund would not make another mistake.
Suddenly, Edmund tossed his branch to the side and crouched, arms forward as if he were about to wrestle. The move caught Hakon completely by surprise. He faltered, confused by Edmund's apparent forfeiture. Then his eyes narrowed as he sensed foul play.
Edmund egged him on. “Attack me, you lout. Can you not see I dropped my stick? End this quickly.”
Realizing his advantage, Hakon swung for Edmund's head. At the same instant, Edmund dropped to the log, straddling it as if it were a horse's back. Before Hakon could back away, Edmund grabbed his ankle and pulled with all his might.
The pull flipped Hakon up and back. Trees, branches, and sky flashed before his eyes as he plummeted backward. His arms flailed for something to grab but found only air. Then something incredibly sharp smacked the back of his head. A bright light flashed in his eyes as a sickening pain shot down his neck. He rolled sideways and suddenly he was falling again.
Chapter 6
A voice whispered in Hakon's ear, and he opened his eyes to the blurry outlines of beams and thatch. He tried to turn his head to search for the source of the voice, but the movement brought a pain that flowed like molten metal from the back of his head to his temples—a pain so severe that he gasped.
“Lie still,” the squeaking voice commanded gently—Louis. “I will fetch Father Otker.”
Hakon tried to piece together what had happened to him. He remembered all that had happened on the sparring log: the crowd, the water, Edmund. He remembered his brief fight with his foster brother, the flashing pugil sticks, the ice underfoot. But that was where his memory stopped. Had he fallen and hit his head? Had something fallen on him? He searched his mind but found nothing that might reveal the source of his current condition.
He heard the rustle of Father Otker's gown. Again he tried to turn his head and again the furious pain in his head robbed him momentarily of his senses. He grunted.
“Be still, Hakon. You have been gravely injured and you must try to keep your head still.”
“What happened to me?” he croaked from a dry mouth. He tried to swallow but could not.
He caught the whirl of a robe following his question. “Louis, did I not instruct you to keep his lips moist with water? Could you not handle that simple task?”
Hakon pictured Louis' small frame shrinking beneath the intimidating stare of the old monk.
“I …” Louis squeaked, “I …”
“Leave us.”
The sound of scurrying feet marked Louis' departure.
Father Otker turned back to Hakon. “That boy …” He let his words trail off. “Where were we? Ah, yes. You were injured, Hakon. When you fell on the log.”
Hakon's stomach dropped as he contemplated all the ways his young body might have been damaged. He awaited the monk's next words in fearful silence.
“Your head was split open just above the point where your skull meets your neck. An inch lower and it would have been severed, killing you at best, paralyzing you at worst.” Father Otker suddenly appeared before Hakon's face and dabbed his moist finger on Hakon's cracked lips.
His tongue moved thirstily to the moisture—cold water. It tasted heavenly. “Paralyzing? What's that?”
“Paralysis is a term used to describe the lack of movement in parts of your body. It can be localized to your limbs, such as your legs or arms, or it can affect your whole body. I have seen it happen a few times in similar circumstances, where a blow to the neck or back has destroyed all movement.”
Hakon could feel his right arm on his chest and he tried to move it. It would not budge. He panicked. “I—I can't move my arm. Am I para … para—”
“Do not fear. You broke your arm in the subsequent fall. A sling holds it firmly in place. In time, you will have full use of it again.”
Hakon's blood beat at his temples, bringing a different, yet equally violent, throbbing to his head. He furrowed his brows against the pain and tried to concentrate. “What else has happened to me?”
“Thanks to God, nothing more. You are lucky to be alive.” Father Otker rose. “Rest easy, Hakon. I will have some broth brought. You will need it to regain your strength and to fight infection. Let me know when the pain gets too great. I will have a draught made to relieve the pain.”
Again the rush of Father Otker's robes filled Hakon's ears as the monk left the room. Seconds later, or so it seemed, someone else entered, bearing some food that s
melled wondrous.
“How long have I been abed?” Hakon croaked to the unseen visitor.
“Since yesterday, Master Hakon.”
Hakon made a quick calculation in his head, and realized with a start that it had been nearly two days since he had eaten. It was no wonder his stomach hurt so badly. “Where am I?”
“You are in the monastery.”
The boy with the food sat down beside him. From the corner of his eye Hakon saw this was another monk, a young novice not much older than himself. Since Hakon could not sit up or even move, the novice took a small spoonful of broth, blew on it, then dripped it onto Hakon's tongue, being careful not to give him too much at a time, lest it roll into his throat and gag him. Every so often, the monk mixed the broth with a spoonful of wine, which stung Hakon's glands with its dusty flavor, but tasted delicious nevertheless. The process was agonizingly slow, but Hakon felt warm and relaxed when it was through.
“I will be here through the night, should you need something.”
Hakon thanked him groggily, then drifted off into blissful sleep.
The first few days following the injury moved with frustrating inertia for Hakon. Unable to make more than the slightest movement, he found his monastery bed a prison of repetitive boredom. Every morning at sunrise, the bells rang for Prime and woke Hakon from his fitful slumber. Shortly thereafter, the young novice—whose name was Egbert—fed Hakon his morning meal, which usually consisted of water and a steaming bowl of porridge. A visit from Father Otker usually followed. The austere monk took advantage of Hakon's forced idleness by recounting biblical tales. Helpless, Hakon listened.
Father Otker was a better teacher than a storyteller. He did not spin tales or spice the miracles with flowery exaggerations. He did not make Jesus or the disciples larger than life heroes who lived unattainably pure lives. Rather, he recited the stories as if each had a hidden lesson within it, and populated the tales with real-life characters that evoked thought and emotion. When the lesson ended, he would ask a question for Hakon to contemplate, but not answer.
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