The hall fell quiet as Hakon’s lead skald stepped forward. He was young for someone of that profession—usually they were old or crippled men, useless for farming and war-making. Then he took up the small harp that sat by his side, and Ragnvald noticed the perfect care in his movements, and the way his eyes followed behind his hands. He was blind, probably from birth or some childhood fever, rather than injury. He could not be a man, could not be a warrior, so he chose this instead.
The harp too was unusual—no Norse crafted them. Ragnvald had only seen their like among the treasure pillaged from Ireland. The skald gave his name, and those of his ancestors, then began his tale. He spoke in the kenning-rich phrases of poetry, with a riddle in every line, accompanying himself by strumming his harp. He told the tale of Hakon’s father, and how he expanded his territory to pass it to his son, then how Hakon had further expanded it.
Few sitting at the feast would not already know this story, and still they listened intently. There were lessons here, buried in the alliteration, lessons of vengeance and generosity, punishments for those who erred and rewards for the brave. And lessons too in how Hakon saw himself and wished the world to see him. The Hakon in the tales was wise and thoughtful. The Hakon sitting in his chair at the head of the long tables nodded when some clever phrase was put in his mouth, and frowned at the moments that illuminated his hastiness.
The tale held equal measures of both. Hakon had been exiled for three years to Orkney for killing his uncle, his mother’s brother. The tale made much of the insults that had passed between them, for if it had not, Hakon would come out of the story as a kin-slayer. Three years of exile were not enough to pay for such a sin. Hakon’s face grew easier when the tale passed from the insult pole his uncle had raised to him, past the duel, during which Hakon had cut off his uncle’s legs and left him to crawl out of the dueling circle to die, finally to the years of Hakon’s exile. Hakon had won great fame in Orkney, making daring raids against Scottish settlements in the Hebrides, and winning more land for Norse settlers.
Ragnvald watched Guthorm and Harald as the skald spoke. Harald looked attentive for the first few minutes, then bored, then started flirting with the woman who shared his cup. Her looks reminded Ragnvald of Heming—this must be Hakon’s daughter Asa, whom Harald had lately married.
Against his will, Ragnvald felt a little pity for Heming—in the shadow of such a great father, he must hunger for glory, some way to make his own name remembered. The powerful men of the district leaned their heads close to one another and spoke in low voices. Dagvith had some familiarity with them and told Ragnvald their names and relationships. When the song ended, Heming walked behind them, speaking words in one ear and then another. Some were pleased by what he said, some discontented. Ragnvald thought perhaps he was trying to gather support for his attack on Solvi. Hakon could not but know of it, not when Heming spoke so boldly.
The final stanzas of the song were standard praise-words for Hakon, and then it wound to a close. Members of Hakon’s court stood to give toasts to his greatness. Hakon accepted a few of these and then raised his hand to end them. At some unspoken signal, thralls and servants came into the hall with casks of sweet summer ale. The skald sang the first few words of a drinking song in his loud, pure voice, and the assembled warriors took it up.
Hakon caught Ragnvald’s eye and beckoned him to join the fine lords at the head of the table. “Drink with us, Ragnvald,” said Hakon. Heming flashed Ragnvald a look he could not read, and Ragnvald thought again of Runolf’s fall at the ting, the contest he could never win.
Ragnvald thanked him uncertainly. Hakon’s hall was filled with men who could call themselves Ragnvald’s betters. His grandfather had been a king who could stand with any of them as an equal, but his father Eystein had thrown that away.
“You must take the place you desire, Ragnvald,” said Hakon, seeming to read Ragnvald’s uncertainty in his face. He put a hand on Ragnvald’s shoulder and turned him so Ragnvald looked down the length of the hall. The soapstone lamp overhead swung slightly on its chain, and the shadows of the assembled men moved with it, making them look for a moment as if they were under water, in Ran’s chilly hall. Ragnvald shivered, even in the heat of the crowded room. He sat down next to Hakon.
“I see you watching everyone so carefully,” said Hakon in a voice too quiet to be heard by any but Ragnvald, “and I think: I do not know if this man can be trusted.”
“I meant no—,” Ragnvald started, too loudly.
“It is good to look, to see how things stand, but guard your face better,” said Hakon. Ragnvald nodded, acknowledging the advice. It was a great compliment that Hakon chose to lesson him. “Tell me what you see in these men.”
Ragnvald saw heads bowed over drinking horns and dishes of food. Galti looked around at the other warriors jealously. Dagvith—the son of wealth and nobility—his expression held nothing but pleasure at good food and strong ale. Dreng the Dane smiled cruelly at something Ragnvald could not hear. He would sow discord wherever he went, and blame it on Galti if he could, or anyone else unfortunate enough to be near him if he could not. Behind them two dogs fought over a bone, while a larger one circled the fight, growling and raising the fur on the ruff of its neck.
Closer by, he saw men caught up in drinking and dicing. One warrior past his prime, a voluble drunk, spoke urgently to his companion, who ignored him.
“I see many things,” said Ragnvald. “What do you want of me?”
“You can do better than that. Who will lead, and who will follow? Who will the skalds sing of tomorrow?”
Ragnvald sighed. “Dreng the Dane is sly as Loki, and will find nothing but trouble, no matter how clever his schemes. Galti envies every man everything he owns and will die on some sword or another.” He glanced at young Harald and his uncle, at Hakon’s jarls, sitting close by. He had opinions of them too and dared not speak them.
“Tell me what else,” said Hakon. “You will not anger me.”
“Jarl Ingimarr is concerned about something that is not the coming war, something that does not bode well for your son Heming,” said Ragnvald slowly. Ingimarr, as if in answer to Ragnvald’s low-spoken words, glanced at Heming Hakonsson and then again at his hands, tracing sword calluses with his fingers.
“Jarl Hafgrim is eager for wealth, and wishes not to tarry long in your hall.” Ragnvald tilted his head. “Perhaps he is even more eager for bloodshed.”
“And Jarl Vekel?” Hakon prompted. Ragnvald saw a young man, scarcely older than himself, nervousness making his eyes shift and fingers dance.
“Between those two wolves, Vekel will not long hold his lands, will he?” Ragnvald asked, purely a guess this time.
“And what do you think of young Harald and his uncle?” Hakon asked, very low.
“Harald is young and ruled by his uncle,” said Ragnvald. “His uncle is ambitious. This is no more than any man will have seen, though.”
“Which of the men would you follow?” he asked Ragnvald.
“I’ve chosen who I would follow.” Ragnvald inclined his head slightly toward Hakon.