“I had always thought Vestfold women the most beautiful in the land, but I have learned that Hordaland boasts their equals,” said Harald when the song was done. He raised his glass.
The warriors took up the toast, and the hall grew quiet while men drained their cups of ale. When the clatter of pewter on wood told that the toast was drunk, Heming said to Thorbrand, who was sitting across from him, “This Harald has married with my sister as well. He should not say that Vestfold women are most beautiful. Or Hordaland. My sister is from Halogaland, and she is fairer than any of these slatterns.”
“My wife is from Vestfold,” said Thorbrand, mildly. “So I agree with Harald. Men doubtless love the women of their own regions best.”
“Your own bride is fairer than Gyda?” Ragnvald asked, for he knew Thorbrand loved to speak of his wife.
“Erindis is fairer to me, for she is mine,” said Thorbrand. He waved her over. “I have been speaking well of you.” She blushed. She was a tiny thing, short enough she could have walked under Ragnvald’s outstretched arm. Gyda outshone any woman Ragnvald had ever seen, except perhaps Vigdis. If Ragnvald killed Olaf, Vigdis would be a widow, free to give herself to any man she desired. Ragnvald shifted in his seat and bent his mind instead to Hilda, with her serious face and her unswerving loyalty. She who he had promised himself to when they were children, who stayed loyal to him even when he had nothing to offer her. He thought her better than these women who made bargains for power, who would be one wife among many if they could tie themselves to a king.
His mind wandered, and so he did not hear what caused Heming to leap to his feet, sending the bench he sat on clattering to the floor. Thorbrand had his teeth bared like an angry bear. Men around them cheered, for all enjoyed a fight. Men who had been brewing fights of their own stopped their squabbling to watch. But Ragnvald had seen Heming fight at a feast before, and he did not want this one to end as that had.
“My lord Heming,” Ragnvald said, “you are drunk, and looking for reasons to fight.” He stared at Heming until Heming looked down.
“Yes,” said Heming. “I must clear my head outside.” He stood and stumbled out.
Ragnvald went to speak to Harald. “Perhaps some games,” he suggested. “Tensions are high where I am sitting.”
“A fine idea,” said Harald. He looked to Guthorm, who stood and announced a series of contests, and ordered another barrel of ale to be opened. He divided some of the men into a living game of tafl, which he played against Hakon. They could not play it to completion, for the men were too drunk to stay in the places where they had been set, but Guthorm declared it a triumph of entertainment anyway, perhaps more than if it had finished.
“What next?” Harald asked, his face bright with drink.
“Arm wrestling,” called out Heming. “Let us see who is the strongest, between my father and Harald’s warriors.”
That sort of suggestion always met with approval at a feast. A line of men formed to challenge one another. Heming quickly organized the tournament, separating the men into two groups, who would take turns against one another. Ragnvald wondered how drunk Heming truly was. Drunkenness would be a good excuse for starting the sort of brawl he seemed to want with Thorbrand, and a clear head would be a good way to win it.
“Will you judge, Lord Guthorm, as our host?” Heming asked. “Or will you join the competition?” Guthorm agreed to judge, as long as Harald did not compete. Ragnvald also chose not to take part, since his hand still pained him.
Men sat across from one another at the head of the table to take their turn in the challenge, common soldiers mingling with captains, though the common men were smaller and not as strong as the sons of nobles who had been well fed their whole lives. The sides were whittled down as men retreated, with aching arms, until only a few were left. Ragnvald cheered for Thorbrand, Oddi, and Heming when they took their turns. Every time Ragnvald drained his cup, a charming young thrall with a short cap of dark hair refilled it, letting her fingers linger on his. He would have her tonight, when this contest was over.
Heming defeated all of his challengers handily—he had both long arms and great strength. He attacked quickly, before his opponents could take his measure.
Finally, in the third round, when only ten or so men remained, Heming faced Thorbrand. One of Harald’s men looped the leather thong around their hands and tied it—not too tightly. Heming bent Thorbrand’s wrist and drove his arm back. Thorbrand winced, for the first time since the contest began. Heming must be gripping tight.
Thorbrand fought him to a standstill in the middle. Then Heming grinned and tightened his grip until his fingers went white. The muscles in Thorbrand’s jaw stood out as he fought Heming. His arm began to shake, first at the wrist then all the way up into his shoulder. Sweat poured off his face, while Heming’s smile shone even brighter than his golden beard, a fierce, predatory grin.
Thorbrand fought the full distance, his face growing red, tears of effort leaking out of the corners of his eyes, but eventually Heming pressed his hand down to the tabletop, and Thorbrand raised his other hand to show that he yielded. Harald’s man came back and unlaced the thong that held them together.
“Let me see that,” said Thorbrand. The man glanced at Heming, who nodded.
“Yes, show it to him,” Heming said haughtily. “Let him see I beat him fair and square.”
Thorbrand ran his fingers over the thong and looked at his hands. Ragnvald came closer and tried to see what he was looking at. There was a red mark in the middle of his palm that looked as though something sharp on the leather had come close to drawing blood.
“Well?” said Heming. “Can you not admit that I won?”
Thorbrand threw the leather down and grabbed Heming by the collar of his silk tunic. “You did something to the leather,” he said in a low voice. “I would swear to it. It felt like a knife was cutting into my palm.”
“You would swear to your own weakness?” Heming asked, refusing to let Thorbrand pull him any closer. “I can take a little pain without complaining. Can you not?”
“You cheated,” said Thorbrand. “I don’t know how, but you did.”
“Do you challenge me?” Heming asked. “I have fought seven duels, and always killed my man. I would be happy to make it eight.”
Thorbrand clenched his hands by his sides, his jaw working, his face still red from the contest. “No,” he said finally. “Your father is an important ally for Harald, and I am more loyal to him than that.” He lunged forward and grabbed Heming again, forcing Heming’s face down to his. “But know this—cross me again, and your father can try to find you a kingdom who will accept a maimed king. I do not lose duels either, but you are too good for killing. I would rather mar that pretty face, so women run screaming from you.”