On the ground, Olaf scrambled backward, out of the way. Ragnvald took another step back and stumbled against the tent. His vision was a black tunnel now that contained only Olaf, trying to stand, and a pair of embroidered shoes on the ground next to him. He looked up to see Oddi.
“Enough of this,” said Oddi, sounding just like his father. “The duel is not until tomorrow.”
“They came to murder me,” said Ragnvald, sagging back against the tree. Other men of Hakon’s court gathered around them.
“This man is wounded,” said Oddi to his fellows. “Someone see to him.”
A young man rushed forward and bid Ragnvald sit. He tore bandages from Ragnvald’s shirt and tied them around Ragnvald’s wounds, over his clothes. The pressure made Ragnvald cry out, as his vision narrowed further.
“They came to murder me,” Ragnvald repeated thickly. The pain crested and then receded, a tide moving with his blood. He could manage the worst of it now, he thought.
“That much is clear,” said King Hakon. Ragnvald looked up at him stupidly. When had King Hakon arrived?
“I only wanted redress for today’s insult,” said Olaf. “This—boy has insulted me, and stolen my daughter—”
“Stepdaughter,” said Sigurd, under his breath. Olaf gave him a dirty look.
“We planned to duel tomorrow,” said Ragnvald. “Did you fear me so much?”
Olaf pulled himself to his feet. He was still breathing hard. “He does not deserve the honor of a duel.”
“You have attempted murder,” said Hakon, implacable.
“It was not murder—it was my right,” said Olaf. “Solvi Hunthiofsson will speak for me.”
“I cannot think what he could say to change what I have seen,” said King Hakon, “but someone fetch him anyway.”
It seemed like little time passed between Hakon speaking the words and one of his men reappearing with Solvi in tow, but it must have taken several minutes. Ragnvald was very thirsty.
“Why did you call on me?” Solvi asked Olaf, before anyone could question him. “I want nothing more to do with you.”
“I was only finishing what you started,” said Olaf. “What you could not do.”
“You will not put this on me.”
Dimly, Ragnvald was aware of someone slapping his face. His bandages were tightened, sending more pain blooming up from his thigh through his groin. “You may duel with Olaf tomorrow,” said Hakon to him. Hakon’s face was right in front of him. Was Ragnvald standing, or was Hakon sitting? Ragnvald could not tell.
“He is not well enough to duel,” said Oddi. “I will stand for him. I will gladly kill Olaf for him.”
“No,” said Ragnvald. No, he could not let Oddi do that. Ragnvald was not aware of much at this moment, but he clung to this. Olaf was his. “No,” he said again. “I may die of my wounds. Olaf is a coward, but he holds my lands for me now. I will kill him, if I recover. And if I do not, may the gods deal with him as he has with me.”
Hakon’s face retreated away from him. “Ragnvald Eysteinsson has spoken,” he said, “and I judge it good. He may have his own revenge.” To Olaf he said, “I declare you outlawed from my lands. Any man may kill you on sight and come to me for reward.”
Olaf paled, and squared his shoulders. “You are not my king,” he said, showing the first bravery he had since coming to the assembly.
“And young Ragnvald wants you to live so he can kill you himself. Go back to Ardal, tonight, or I will let my sons make what sport of you they will.”
He might have said something else, but Ragnvald slumped forward. He breathed in the dust of last year’s leaves, and then he knew no more.
12
When Ragnvald woke up, he felt drunk. His mouth tasted of spirits, and his arm, side, and thigh ached and burned by turns. He sat up, his head spinning. He was in a well-decorated tent, on a raised bed, with Svanhild sitting by his side.
“Ragnvald,” she said, sounding relieved. “I’ll go get someone.”
Ragnvald lay back down again, but it did not stop the tent walls from shifting around him, as though he were rolling down a steep slope. He wanted to throw up.
Oddi and King Hakon appeared next. Ragnvald sat up again—he would not lie down when a king was talking to him. “I know you feel terrible now,” said Hakon, “but my healer says you are very lucky. Your wounds are in muscle only. You will heal quickly.”
“Thank you,” said Ragnvald, his voice scratchy as though he had not used it in some time.
“Olaf and his household have gone as my father ordered,” said Oddi. “A few other families left as well—I think some of his kin?”
“Thank you,” said Ragnvald again. He did not know what else to say.
“I knew your father and grandfather,” said Hakon. “Your grandfather Ivar was a mighty king in Sogn. His brother was the most feared sea king of the northern coast. Do you know that fishermen still look for his treasure caches in the barrier islands?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Ragnvald. He had learned the tales, been proud of them, to come from a line of kings who protected their people and their lands, and to be descended from fierce raiders as well, who conquered wave and rock so that they were called sea kings, kings with no land, only plunder.
“Eystein Glumra, we called your father,” Hakon was saying. “Eystein the Noisy. All bluster and boasting, no action.”
Ragnvald felt distantly angry, but the pain in his body was more immediate. And there was no use for this anger; Hakon spoke the truth.
“But you are not like that, are you?” Hakon looked at Ragnvald curiously, as though he actually wanted to hear Ragnvald’s answer.
“I hope not,” said Ragnvald. He wished Hakon would get to the point and let him rest.
“You are a rare one, to let Olaf live,” said Hakon. “You would rather kill him yourself than have his land pass easily to you.”
Distantly, Ragnvald remembered that Oddi had offered to kill Olaf for him, and Ragnvald had declined. At the time, he had not wanted anyone else to take his revenge.
Hakon looked at Ragnvald, stroking his beard. It was thick and long enough that Ragnvald wondered if Hakon counted his personal fighting days over. A sprinkling of gray hairs dulled the golden strands, and the skin around his eyes was heavy. Jarl Runolf had been Hakon’s friend, Ragnvald remembered. Hakon would wish to mourn for him but could not, not when his own son was the killer.
“What will you do now?” Hakon asked.
“I am wounded,” said Ragnvald. It was as well that Olaf lived. He did not regret that decision, though he had hardly been conscious when he made it. Let Olaf hold Ardal until Ragnvald knew if he would live or die, if he would heal maimed or whole. He owed it to the land of his forefathers. No one would acclaim him jarl or king if he could not fight. He would rather die unknown than let his name live on like his father’s.