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CHAPTER XXIX

Erling and I sat outside our booth with the others, eating our evening meal. I had to run my hand over my head from time to time, feeling my strange new tonsure. "The tonsure of St. Peter," the English call it. Our old Irish tonsure they sneeringly call "the tonsure of Simon Magus." As if we weren't serving God in our tonsures while their fathers were kissing mares and licking sacrificial bowls.

"Have you talked to Sigrid, Father?" Erling asked me.

I peered at him. "Why do you ask?"

"She seems so strange these days. I find her wandering about among the tents, singing to herself. She doesn't hear when she's spoken to. I brought her to the Thing in hopes I could make her a good marriage, get her mind off that boy who was killed. But it seems she's distracted with grief. Perhaps I should keep her away from steel—"

"No," said I. "Keep her always near steel."

Erling's voice lowered. "The underground folk?"

"I can say no more."

"Sigrid is my sister. I must know."

"Trust me in this, as we all trust you. I've said all I can. Tell me how it goes with Halla and Astrid."

Erling looked at the ground and said, "All is well. Astrid utterly refuses to wed me. She says she wouldn't marry a mere hersir in the first place, and certainly not one who has the cheek to refuse a king's daughter's hand." He was putting a good face on it, but it hurt him.

"What of the settlement with Olaf?"

"I can be a jarl without marrying Astrid. Olmod and his plotters will be disappointed, since they say there's nothing like a marriage to make a peace. But when you think of it, how many peaceful marriages have you seen?"

"So you'll wed Halla?"

"Aye. I'll have a fine wife. A fine wife."

I said, "Here comes Sigurd Eriksson. I wonder what he wants."

Sigurd was alone, and when he stopped and stared at the man on the bench across from us, the man got up and walked away. Sigurd sat in his place. "A sweet evening," he said.

"Aye," said Erling. "Sogn is a fine place for beauty."

"Not as good as Jaeder for grain though."

"Not nearly."

Sigurd said, "The king has told us we must live at peace, Erling Skjalgsson. So we're at peace—by law. But there's never a real peace until men make it in their hearts. Can we make true peace now, at last?"

Erling said, "I've never wished trouble with you, Sigurd, nor any of your family. I didn't wish the death of Aki—he left me no choice. I'm sorry you feel cheated by the deeds of my fathers, but it's too late to change that without uprooting my life and wrecking my fortune. Nevertheless, I offer you self-judgment. What penalty should I pay you, that the bloodshed may cease and bad feeling be buried?"

Sigurd leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground awhile. "We're Christians now," he said, "but this Christianity is hard to master. The priests say a Christian must love his enemies, and turn the other cheek to a man who strikes him in the face. How can a man do these things and keep his honor? As far as I can see, no one's worked that out. They talk about it, but no one practices it, not even the priests themselves.

"Still, I say to myself—when a feud has gone on for generations, and there's nothing to be gained, and my family is now better off than yours thanks to Olaf's bounty—what's the use in carrying it on? Yet my kin will not accept peace, I think, unless you pay some price."

"Name the price."

"You'll be a great man in Norway. Everyone knows this. You have property; you have the king's friendship. In these things you are my equal. I don't begrudge it. I think my kin would begrudge it, though, if you were raised above us as a jarl. When the king offers you a jarldom, refuse it."

"That's a high price."

"Your reason need be no secret. Say it's to please us. My kin will be satisfied then."

"I've turned down the sister of the king. Now you bid me turn down his jarldom. I might as well slap Olaf's face and see if he'll turn the other cheek."

"I'll speak for you with him when the time comes. He listens to me."

"I gave you self-judgment, and I must abide by your wishes. But it's a hard thing you ask."

"You gain my friendship with this, Erling. I am no worthless friend."

Sigurd went away, and Erling said, "A man's word should be a cable of steel. But he mustn't be surprised if that cable hangs him one day."

* * *

The next morning a messenger came asking Erling to come to the king's tent. We went together, with Erling's bullyboys following.

Olaf stood before his booth, wearing a red linen shirt. He had a horn of ale in his hand, and as we came near he said something that made all the men standing around laugh.

"Erling Skjalgsson!" he cried when he saw us. "It's good to see you this fine morning! I've something to ask of you!"

"Anything I can give in honor is yours," said Erling, going to him.

"As my men and I drank together last night, someone got to talking of your adventures. He said that when it comes to strength and skill with weapons you are my only equal in Norway, perhaps in the world."

"I've never made such a claim," said Erling.

"That's not the point, you see. The point is that some men have bet on me, and some have bet on you, and it's up to us to decide the thing for them."

"I'd rather not compete with my king."

"Well, your king commands it." Olaf's eyes were red—I guessed he'd drunk his breakfast. "And he commands that you not hold back to let him beat you, as if you would. We will run, we will cast spears and we will wrestle. And if I'm not winded and bleeding when we're done, I'll lay a heavy fine on you."

The king's bullyboys cleared a course across the Thingstead and set a spear in the ground at each end. The idea was to run down the course and back, rounding the further spear before returning to the near one.

Someone brought a horn of ale for Erling, and as he drank it I said, "I mislike this. A king's pride is touchier than a mortified wound. He'll not punish you for obeying, I expect, but you might lose your favor."

"Has it ever occured to you, Father Aillil, that I can be beaten?" asked Erling, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Anyway, I've no choice. Perhaps it's God's will I be a small man in Norway."

"Just be careful."

The footrace, run carrying an axe and a shield, was quickly done, and Erling won it easily. Speed was one of his gifts, and although he and Olaf were nearly of a height, he was built along the lines of a stag, while Olaf was more of a bull. He reached the goal several strides ahead of Olaf, and wasn't even breathing hard.

"Ale for the victor!" cried Olaf, and a horn was brought to Erling. "Drink it dry!" the king commanded. Erling had already had more than his morning measure, but he did as he was told.

A reindeer skin with a bull's-eye on it was next stretched between two spears a distance away, and Erling and Olaf took turns casting three spears each. Olaf's first cast was a little off, while Erling's was clean on the mark. The king ordered a drink for each of them before they cast again. This time both struck the mark. Again the king called for drinks, and the third time both missed by a finger's breadth.

"Now with the left hand!" shouted Olaf. They both missed the first cast, but Olaf was closer. Olaf called for ale. Both missed the second, but Erling was even further off. On the third, Olaf's spear just touched the mark, and Erling was a hand's breadth off.

So the spear throwing was called a draw, and the king called for more ale.

In that moment I understood Olaf Trygvesson, although I dared not say a word to Erling. Olaf was addicted to ale. Like all men so enslaved, he actually grew steadier in the morning when he'd gotten a few measures in his belly, while Erling's senses were dulling.

"Now we wrestle!" cried Olaf. "I warn you again, Erling Skjalgsson, don't hold back a finger! I'll know it if you do!" He pulled off his shirt and crouched, and Erling took his own shirt off, handed it to me, and made ready to meet him.

I gasped when I saw Olaf's back. I'd guessed that he must have been a headstrong slave, and his skin bore witness to it. I'd seen thralls who'd been beaten savagely and often, but I've never, before or since, seen a back as scarred as Olaf's on a man who yet walked. Every color known writhed in its knots and furrows, with white and brown most common. He had to suffer constant pain from the ruined nerves. No wonder he drank so.

The two men approached one another and took the Norse wrestling stance, which involves standing breast to breast, each man looking over the other's right shoulder, his right hand on his opponent's trouser waist, the left grasping a bunch of his trouser leg. They circled, swinging their legs to try to trip the other, for the first few minutes, never looking down (which is bad form). Olaf attempted a tricky hip maneuver, but Erling twisted free. Erling then tried to lift Olaf and drop him off balance, but Olaf avoided that. Then they circled some more, breathing heavily.

Erling tried a cross-hook with his right leg against Olaf's, but Olaf countered with a lift and a knee maneuver. Erling stumbled and nearly fell, but managed to keep his feet. I didn't think he looked well, and he swayed a bit.

"Come on, come on, you'll have to do better than that!" said Olaf. "You want to be a great lord, you'd better learn to fight! You want to scorn kings' sisters, you'd better learn to fight like a troll!"

"I never scorned your sister," said Erling, panting. "I only keep my word, as I mean to keep it to you. Besides, I'm not good enough for Astrid. Ask her."

Olaf kicked out with his heel to hook and trip Erling. Erling stood firm and they grappled a moment, until he got an outside legstroke on the king, which the king struggled out of with a leap and a jig. Then they circled some more, moving slowly now.

"Astrid's changed her mind," said Olaf. "Last night I took her favorite hawk, plucked its feathers out, and sent it to her. She took the hint. She says she'll marry as I will. What's the use being a king if I can't make a jarl of whomever I like?"

"About that jarldom, there's something I should say—" said Erling, but Olaf got a hip under him just then and lifted him high, then threw him to the ground. Erling lay winded a moment, his mouth open, and as he did so Olaf threw himself down and got his legs around Erling's neck (which was not strictly within the rules).

"So what about my sister?" cried Olaf. "Will you marry her, or shall I break your neck?"

Erling croaked, "I cannot break my word to Halla Asmundsdatter."

Olaf said, "Askel, speak your piece!"

Askel Olmodsson stepped out of the crowd and, like a child reciting before his elders, said, "I have offered betrothal for my son Aslak to Halla Asmundsdatter, and her father has agreed to it."

Erling said, "What?" and Olaf took his legs away. Erling sat up, rubbing his neck. "Halla would never agree."

"She has agreed," said Askel. "It's a high match for a bonder's daughter."

"Aslak's just a boy."

"He's nearly a man now—taller than I am. And Halla is little older."

"I think," said Olaf, "that this absolves you of your vow to Halla."

Erling fell backwards on the grass and lay with his arms stretched out a moment. "This is Olmod's doing," he said.

"It's the head of the family's business to arrange marriages."

When he sat up Erling looked like a man loosed from a chain, and his face shone like his honor.

"I'll be very happy to wed your sister, my lord," he said.

Somewhere up in the mountains a scream—from no human throat—rose and died. No one seemed to mark it but me.

 

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Framed


Title: The Year of the Warrior
Author: Lars Walker
ISBN: 0-671-57861-8
Copyright: © 2000 by Lars Walker
Publisher: Baen Books