That night, King Hakon feasted all the men of Sogn. Hakon’s steward seated Ragnvald far down the table, above the free farmers, and below all of his warriors and most of the merchants. Ragnvald could not see Olaf and Vigdis, but that was not so strange. Each table sat in its own pool of firelight, faces shadowed in the dusk.
Hakon had brought two of his wives to host, and a few of his daughters to share cups with the most favored of his guests. Hakon’s wives set a good table, a first course of huge wheels of cheese, honey for the bread, followed by salted fish simmered in milk, sweet fruit both fresh and stewed. The sacrifice meat came next, cooked so long in its own fat that the beef fell apart when he pushed it onto his bread with his dagger. Since he sat lower on the table, the ale did not come until Ragnvald had finished half his meal, but when it arrived it tasted strong, sweet with the apples of the summer before.
Hakon’s trueborn sons had come as well. Heming the Peacock decorated the upper table in his blue silk tunic and the broad, gold-buckled belt won roving into Rus and trading with the Swedish king at Kiev. He and his younger brothers joked and chatted on the dais, Oddi dark among all the bleached heads. Their talking, overloud, seemed to Ragnvald a self-conscious performance.
Hakon put his arm around Heming, who said something to him that caused Hakon to throw back his head and laugh. Ragnvald’s food was suddenly hard to swallow. He would never be as favored as these men, even had his father not lost their land, but he could have started with something, not just Olaf’s enmity.
He should have asked to be seated with Adisa’s family. They made him welcome each night as though he belonged to them, and had cheered him in his footrace. When he came to Hakon’s feast, though, he had wanted to see where Hakon’s steward would place him, and learn something of his status.
Ragnvald turned his attention back to the merchants who sat near him. Some of them were known to him from tings years previous, and he listened as they spoke of places they had traveled. After one who had journeyed as far as Constantinople had his say, talk turned to matters closer to home.
“I can hardly sail down the coast of Norway anymore without losing all my wares to sea kings,” grumbled the man who had been to Constantinople.
“Why return?” asked another. “The weather is far better in England.”
“They’re poor from the war,” said a third. “But Paris can still afford good Norse furs and slaves.”
“And Solvi is the worst,” said the first merchant again. “Next summer, I’ll buy my furs in Vestfold, even with the added cost. King Harald promises to rid Norway of these sea kings who strangle commerce.”
That drew Ragnvald’s attention, and the other merchants suddenly became very interested as well. As king, Harald aimed to set up centers of commerce, like the Danes’ Hedeby, at various locations along the Norse coast, and protect them from rovers. No wonder King Hakon wanted to be Harald’s ally—whatever king had such a center in his lands would grow wealthy from tax and trade, and Harald could not hope to administer it all by himself. Ragnvald listened until the conversation turned to boasting again—the merchants now comparing their greatest sales. This talk made Ragnvald weary. He measured his own wealth in only a few ounces of silver, and the foundation of his father’s old hall, which now Olaf meant to take from him.
The men who sat below Ragnvald were farmers from Sogn, men he had seen at every ting, men who blended together in his memory. They talked over the day’s rumors: Solvi had taken an unmarried woman of fine family for a ride across the plain. Try as he might, Ragnvald could not catch the name of the woman in the gossip that flew, and when he asked, the farmers all had other news to tell him. Well, it could not have been Hilda—Solvi would never have chosen a woman so tall.
Next to Ragnvald, a man fell to his knees and vomited up the rich sacrifice meat onto the grass. At the head of the table, two men drew swords on one another. Hakon’s guards made no move to break up the fight, but herded them into the proper dueling perimeter. The benches emptied as men rose, of one mind, to watch the fight.
The crowd caught Ragnvald and pulled him along as it spread out around the edge of the dueling ground. He watched as the two men, one dark and one blond, matched in height and coiled tension, circled each other, swords drawn, shields strapped to their left hands. The sun had set and the long twilight lingered, leaving the sky a grayish pink, making the fighters look like a shadow play, their features indistinct. No torches lit the fight, so not until they turned did Ragnvald see that the lighter man was Heming the Peacock, Hakon’s eldest son, handsome and haughty. He kept his blond beard clipped close, to better show off the straight line of his jaw. He dressed his hair long and bound back with a leather thong, brushed smooth as wood. Where the darker man wore wool homespun and large-ringed mail that weighted down his movements, Heming’s sleeves billowed in the wind, imported silk. His mail shirt was fine and light as well, silver like birch leaves.
The fight’s first spasm of violence had given way to measured pacing, as Heming and his opponent circled one another, feinting as much with shields as swords. The dark-haired man moved slowly until he decided to strike, and then he lashed like a bolt of lightning. Heming moved like liquid, never long in once place, never providing a steady target.
Ragnvald found himself hoping the dark-haired man would win. He reminded Ragnvald of himself: brown-haired and serious-faced, here among all these fair heads. The pace of the fight quickened. Heming and his opponent hacked at each other’s shields in grim silence. The chatter of the feast quieted so all could watch. For a time, the contest looked even, until Heming’s shield gave up its last piece of linden, leaving him with only the iron boss held in his gloved fist. This he hurled at his opponent, snarling an insult Ragnvald could not make out.
The dark-haired man tossed what was left of his shield aside as well—the honorable thing to do, but not wise. Now the sound of blade on blade rang out over the plain. Uneasy whispers flew. This was not the sort of battle men liked to see at the ting, a fight to the death. Far better first blood or injury, leaving the loser to buy back his life. Ragnvald made his way through the crowd to stand next to Egil.
“Who is Heming’s opponent?” he asked.
“King Hakon’s favorite jarl, Runolf,” said Egil, sounding eager. “My father tells me this fight has been brewing for a long time.”
“How can Runolf win? Even if he kills Heming, Hakon will be against him.”
Egil took a swig of his ale. “He cannot win,” he agreed.