“You are not so pleased with your brother's antics,” Hakon said to her profile.
“He plays a risky game with our name and our family,” Astrid said, which was true. If Sigge died, he would end Sigurd's bloodline, and do so as a philanderer.
“Then let us hope, for all of our sakes, that he prevails.”
“Enough of this talk,” interjected Sigurd bluntly. “It weighs on me and turns my stomach. Let us speak of happier things. Astrid has told me of your proposal, Hakon.”
Hakon felt like a ship caught in a sudden squall, and it took him a moment of glancing at Sigurd, then at the smiling Astrid, to right his bearings. “What has she told you?” he asked hesitantly.
“That you wish for her to live with you, at Avaldsnes.” Sigurd turned and grinned at Hakon.
“So you approve?”
Sigurd smacked Hakon on the back, splashing some of his ale onto the table as he did so. “Of course I approve! What father would not want his daughter to be happy?” He laughed and hoisted his cup.
Hakon toasted his friend and drank, then turned to the smiling Astrid. And in that moment, with the firelight highlighting the lines of her face and the deep creases at the corners of her eyes, his heart soared.
“You would not have said that winters ago, when I was to marry Groa.”
Sigurd waved the comment aside. “Of course not! But that was then, and it was political. Times have changed.” He placed on hand on each of their shoulders. “At least one of my children is capable of sound decisions! And who knows? Mayhap the gods will grant me a grandchild yet!”
“Father!” Astrid wailed.
Hakon smiled at his friend's comment, for it would not be a bad thing to have a child with Astrid. But the same thought turned his mind to the impending duel, and the peril in which he had placed his friend's child. And that thought, in turn, brought with it visions of Erik's sons, and Gyda, and the knife that had taken the life of his unborn child. He sat in silence for a time with those thoughts weighing on him. Astrid must have sensed his gloom, for she rose, kissed his head, and left him to his thoughts.
“What have you heard among your chieftains?” he finally asked Sigurd. “Think you that they will come to fight the Danes?”
Sigurd swirled his cup as he considered his king's words. “I think they will not want to risk their necks for the sake of other men. They will only do so if Drangi tells them it is wise.”
Hakon was not surprised, for it was the way of things. Men saw only their own families, their own lands, their own harvest, and the will of their false gods in it all. Life was a struggle, and most did not have the luxury of looking beyond the next winter. “And you?” he asked Sigurd.
Sigurd guzzled the remainder of his ale and belched loudly. “I am older now, Hakon, and have won my fame. And I am no longer so eager for the blood fray. Nor have I much need for more riches. So unless you can convince me that there is good reason, I see no logic in poking the bee's nest.” He raised a finger. “But, if I know my people, then I know there will be some young ones who will see a reason. Those that thirst for wealth and fame will join you, unless Drangi's advice is dire.” He shrugged. “We will have to see.”
“You sound as if you are satisfied with dying abed rather than protecting what is yours.”
Sigurd glowered and raised a finger at his king. “Watch your words, my lord. I am no coward.” He rose. “Now I must sleep. The morrow will be a bitter day, regardless of the outcome.”
Sigurd disappeared into his tent, and Hakon glanced at Toralv, who sat to his right. The big man sleeved some grease from his beard and smiled. “Fine work, my lord. Nothing like calling your closest friend and ally a coward.”
Hakon ignored him and took a swig from his cup to calm his rising anger. He had pushed as far as he could. The rest was in God's hands.
Chapter 10
A horn called the Tronds to the duel, which was to take place in a small space marked at the corners by hazel sticks. Ropes ran from stick to stick to mark the dueling area which, according to the law, was only five long paces by five long paces — not much room in which to maneuver. As a boy, Hakon had fought in several duels, and as he gazed at the men approaching the dueling ground from east and west, his mind flooded with the memory of his fear. Fear that had turned his stomach in knots and beaded the sweat on his brow. Fear that as a warrior, he was not supposed to show. He wondered if he had masked it as well as these men, for neither appeared the least bit apprehensive. Rather, both men smiled and joked with their comrades, paying their challenger little heed.
Both men were equally equipped, carrying a long sword in their hand, a seax at their waist, and a round shield. Both also wore a helmet and a byrnie that reached down to their knees. They were wealthy men and could afford such finery. Not all men were so lucky.
As the men entered the dueling ground, their friends and comrades called encouragement, or else heaped insults on the other man. Those who had no stake in the fight called out their bets to anyone willing to put a wager on the duel. Even women and children joined the ruckus.
Hakon held up his hands for silence and the crowd's clamor settled to an occasional shout. Aided by his walking stick, Thorbjorn stepped into the field and began to recite the laws of the duel in his age-weakened voice.
“This duel is between Hakon Sigurdsson and Alvart Alvartsson, alone. May no other man intervene or assist either man.” The law-speaker's ancient eyes moved from one combatant to the other. “Each man shall have two weapons and a shield. Nothing more. Once the fight has begun, if either man puts a foot outside the field, it will be considered retreat. If he puts both feet out, it will be considered flight. If he retreats, he can return if he so wishes, and the duel will resume. If he does not return, or if he flees, he loses the fight and forfeits all that he owns. If a contestant dies, all that he owns will go to the victor. Either man will have the right to buy himself out of the contest at any time, if he so chooses. The price is half that man's possessions to the victor. Are the rules understood?”
Both men nodded. The law-speaker exited the small field and took his place beside Hakon. To the other side of the king stood a silent Sigurd. The jarl had performed a sacrifice that morning with Drangi, but it had done little to alleviate the concern that danced in his eyes and pulled at his features. His friend's concern tore at Hakon's nerves, for it would be a hard thing indeed to know that his verdict had killed his friend's son. Such a death would strain their relationship; of that there was little doubt. But more so, it would cut Sigurd deeply, irrevocably, and that was a fate Hakon wished on neither of them, nor on Astrid.
Hakon took a deep breath. “Ready?” he asked his friend.
Sigurd could only nod.
Hakon raised his arm, and the combatants braced behind their shields. The shouting resumed.
“Now is your chance to buy your life, pup,” shouted Alvart above the din. “I won't think any less of you.”
“I will enjoy humping your wife tonight,” Sigge responded, “as your lifeless eyes look on.”
Alvart's face flushed. “You swine! I will kill you slowly for that remark.”
Hakon dropped his hand, and Alvart leaped forward. For a man of his size, bedecked in a heavy byrnie as he was, he moved like a rabbit. His speed took Sigge by surprise and put him instantly on the defensive. Sigge dodged right, but Alvart cut off his escape by slamming his shield rim into the right side of Sigge's own shield. The move turned Sigge's shield, blocking his sword arm while exposing his left side. Quick as a blink, Alvart thrust with this sword at Sigge's stomach. The young man jerked right to avoid the thrust, but the sword ripped through the chain.
The crowd gave a collective gasp, but Sigge did not seem to notice. Rather, he shifted his weight right, rose on his toes to gain leverage, lifted his right arm above his shield rim, and thrust down with his blade. The move was awkward, but Sigge's sword somehow found its way to Alvart's neck.
Alvart jerked his head back as if st
ung, dragging his blade free as he did so. “That was a lucky poke, boy,” he growled.
Sigge pointed at him with his blade. “Judging from the blood I see, that was more than a poke, old man.”
Confusion registered on Alvart's face as his hand moved to his neck and felt under his thick beard. His hand came away soaked in crimson.
Alvart's confusion transformed to fury as he charged again. But Sigge was ready this time and sidestepped the larger man's attack, taking the brunt of Alvart's lateral sword-swing on his shield before dancing two paces away.
Alvart turned to attack again, but now the blood pouring from his neck was plain for all to see. It soaked the left side of his byrnie and his left arm besides. “I will kill you, Sigurdsson!” he roared and came again, but his legs would not obey. He staggered and nearly fell.
Sigge jumped right, spun, and hacked at the back of the stumbling man's neck. Alvart tried to protect himself but was far too off balance and weak to lift his shield. The blade bit into his spine and severed his head cleanly from his shoulders. Alvart's massive body collapsed with a dull thud at the foot of his comrades, while his bearded head rolled awkwardly into their midst.
Silence fell across the field. No one had expected the duel to end so quickly, least of all Alvart's comrades. Short moments before, the big man had been joking with them. Now his headless torso lay in a bloody pool before them. Stunned eyes shifted to Sigge, who was feeling for bodily damage inside his byrnie. His hand came away clean. Somehow Alvart's sword had missed Sigge's torso, but how was anyone's guess, for they had all seen the blade penetrate his armor. Sigge grinned stupidly at his luck.
“A sad display of swordsmanship, that,” grumbled Egil, who stood behind Hakon, shaking his head.
“He underestimated Sigge,” said Sigurd, whose voice sang with pride as he stepped into the ring to embrace his son.
Egil spat as he was wont to do when he disagreed with something.
Hakon crossed himself in thanks to God, then addressed the crowd. “The duel is over. According to the law, Hakon Sigurdsson now has the rights to all that Alvart Alvartsson owned, including his wife. This matter is settled.”
Hakon walked over to Turid, who stood back from the crowd, looking uncertain. “Do you see now what your foolishness has wrought?” Hakon asked her.
Her eyes narrowed as she gazed up at her king. “I would not change what I have done, my lord,” she said. “Alvart was a pig and deserved the death that came to him.”
The sharp edge of her emotion surprised Hakon, but heartened him as well, for a false heart rarely felt such emotion. He nodded to her. “Then I am glad for you, Turid. For God has seen your plight and chosen justly.” And with that, he walked away in search of Astrid and his daughter.
He found them playing on the beach. Astrid and Unn were chasing a shrieking Thora with wiggling fingers that threatened to catch and tickle her. Hakon stopped and watched for a time with a smile on his face, letting the pure innocence of their fun wash away the recent violence he had witnessed. Astrid caught sight of him then and stopped her pursuit.
“Come catch me!” Thora called to her.
“Run along,” Astrid waved to her. “Unn will catch you.”
At this, Unn growled playfully and ran for her. Thora yelped and bounded away.
“So?” Astrid asked as she neared Hakon. Her face was anxious.
“Your brother lives.”
Astrid's shoulders slumped in her relief. “Thank the gods.”
“Aye,” offered Hakon graciously, for now was not the time to bicker about religion.
He sat in the sand and patted a spot next to him. Astrid gathered her overdress above her knees and joined him.
“My brother is a fool,” she said, though there was more sadness in her voice than bitterness.
“His youth makes him foolish,” Hakon said, “though he is no fool.”
“You are kind, though not entirely accurate. He gives my father fits. I hope, now that he is master of his own fate, that his mind and behavior mature.”
“I hope so too,” Hakon admitted, then turned his attention to Thora, who was shrieking as she charged across the shingle with Unn not far behind. As she looked back at her pursuer, Thora stumbled on a clump of seaweed and fell hard to the sand. Unn caught her then and tickled her ribs so that her brewing tears turned quickly to laughter.
“Your daughter is quite a girl.”
“How so?”
“Do I really need to tell you?”
Hakon smiled. “No,” he said. “She is my heart.”
“She is a king's daughter. Strong. Mature. Self-assured. You and Gyda have done well by her.”
Hakon grabbed a handful of sand mindlessly and let it pour slowly through his calloused fingers. “The credit belongs to Gyda. I have often been gone.”
Astrid must have sensed that the mention of Gyda brought with it a wave of melancholy, for she scooted closer to Hakon, tucked an arm through his, and rested her head on his shoulder. Hakon's stomach warmed with the embrace, and he leaned closer to her.
“There is much in her that is you,” she said. “I can see it. It would have been there with or without you, or Gyda.”
The words swelled Hakon's heart with pride, though he dared not admit it. “She is a good girl,” he said. “And you are good with her. It makes me glad that you will live with us.”
Astrid sat up and kissed Hakon on his hairy cheek, then laid her head on his shoulder again.
Down on the beach, Unn was doubled over, breathing hard through her grin as Thora ran circles around her, daring her to give chase. Overhead the sun shone, while out at sea, a small breeze rippled the fjord waters. The threat of Sigge's death had vanished with the sight of Thora and Astrid, and in its place there was only happiness, and relief, and this momentary peace.
Sigurd stood at the head table, and as he did, a hush settled on those who had gathered at the eating boards. “Today,” he began, “has been a hard day. My emotions” — the jarl pounded his chest with his closed fist to emphasize his point — “are swirling like a northern wind. While I celebrate my son's victory” — Sigurd raised his cup in his son's direction, a gesture that earned Sigge the backslaps and cheers of his fellow warriors — “I also mourn the loss of my oath-sworn hirdman, Alvart.” Sigurd nodded to the table where Alvart's closest friends sat quietly. They had left an empty spot at the table for their fallen comrade.
Hakon and Astrid watched Sigurd speak from the shadow of the trees. They had spent the afternoon rolling in the furs of Hakon's tent but had risen with the sounds of merriment carrying to them from Sigurd's feasting area. Now, rather than disturb Sigurd's heartfelt words, they waited for the jarl to speak his mind.
“So that you might appreciate the man whose life you took today,” Sigurd called to his son, “I would like to say a few words on his behalf.” Sigge's friends suddenly sensed the inappropriateness of their jocularity and turned their attention to the jarl.
“Before you were howling for your mother's milk, Sigge, Alvart was wading through the blood-fray with his shield and sword by my side. He came from nothing. His father was a bonder who lost his odal rights to King Harald and then his life to a harsh winter when Alvart was but a bairn. Alvart made his way to his uncle's hall, and there was raised with his cousins.
“He joined me when I sought men to end the scourge of Erik and fought by my side at Mollebakken, where two of King Hakon's brothers perished. He swore his oath to me after that battle, when Erik's fame was on the rise and mine was at its lowest. Yet, he never wavered in his fealty, nor doubted my battle luck. From that day to this, he fought with me and feasted with me, and I was proud to call him a friend. He was a man with his faults, but who among us is faultless? I will miss his courage, his loyalty, and his faith in me. He died with his sword in hand, and for that I am thankful, for he will need it in Valhall, where I am sure he now sits, surrounded by his friends and comrades.” Sigurd raised his cup. “To Alvart!”
With his eulogy now ended, Sigurd reclaimed his seat and the feast resumed, albeit more cautiously. Sigurd had let his feelings on the matter show, and no one wanted to be the fool to laugh into the fog of reverence that hung over their lord.
Hakon and Astrid emerged from the shadows and sat to either side of the jarl. Astrid placed a comforting hand on her father's round shoulder, which Sigurd covered with his own paw.
“Well spoken,” Hakon added simply as he took a seat to Sigurd's right.
“It was a bad business,” Sigurd said as he tore a chunk of bread from a nearby loaf and dipped it into his bowl. “I am just glad it is behind us and I still have my son at the end of it.”
Hakon poured some ale into his cup. “I, too, am glad of that, Sigurd.” He wanted to say more but felt that silence was a better companion, so he held his tongue and left Sigurd to his thoughts.
They ate in silence for a time, watching the feast unfold about them as afternoon turned to dusk and then to night. More folk came and others left, their moving forms wavering in the heat from the crackling fire around which the eating boards had been arranged. Men and women mingled, their rolling conversations punctuated by the occasional shout or laugh or snap of wood in the flames. As evening settled in, Astrid rose from her seat and retired for the night.
“It is time,” a voice croaked, and Hakon searched the darkness for its owner. His eyes finally spotted Drangi standing a short distance from the eating board, his head no taller than most men's waists.
Sigurd glanced at Hakon. “Come. Let us learn what the gods think of your plan.”
Sigurd ignored Hakon's questioning look and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. Hakon stood also and reluctantly followed the waddling godi through the darkness to his tent. It stood away from the others and was illuminated by flames that hissed in two metal sconces by the entrance flaps. He and Sigurd were not the only men to have been summoned. All of the Trondelag chieftains, including Tosti, stood near the entrance, the firelight dancing on their uneasy faces.
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