thrown open, and the shifting glow of a fire lit the hall within. A small group of men and women stood at the gate—Christian friends unwilling to go to the Sacred Grove even though it was well away from the watchful eyes of the Church. The servants were waiting. The gates flew wide as Otkel and the others approached. The two groups came together and embraced in mutual consolation. They went in, and up the stairs.
The servants had set out trestles while everybody was at the funeral, and there were many delicacies: jams and honey and sweet cakes of maple sugar, formed into figures; pots of butter and little loafs of white wheat-bread; last year’s winter apples, preserved in the cool caves of the river-bluffs. Drinking-horns were scattered about, and an enormous horn at the head of the table. Great trenchers of barley bread rimmed the trestle board, and sweating cooks were bringing a huge roast up the stairs from the cook-house in the yard.
The guests scattered into the room and took seats on the benches around the trestles. Bursts of talk and of silence alternated. Then Otkel raised his hands. “Dear friends, we are here to celebrate Thorolf. Let’s do so.” He raised the horn from the head of the table, freshly filled to the brim, and drank until he was forced to quit for air. “Ah,” he said, wiping his moustache, and handed the horn to Leif, still very full. Leif made a valiant attempt to drain it, but there was still ale left when he handed it on.
Otkel looked at Thorolf’s high-seat. Tomorrow, he thought, and sat in his usual place on the bench next to it.
Servants moved about, carving meat and filling horns with ale. And now a bard sang in a clear voice, verses made that day in honor of Thorolf. There was a hush, then one of the Northmen who’d been at his horn quite seriously knocked over a bowl of apples. They went rolling across the table, thumping to the floor, accompanied by gales of mirth. At the foot of the table two Northmen wept. The bard began another poem.
Otkel sat in his chair next to the empty high-seat, and sipped his ale. He’d taken an extremely large drink, that first pull at his horn, and now of all times, his wits should not be dulled.
One of the servants set a pie before him. The odor of cinnamon was heavy in the air, and Otkel suddenly realized how hungry he was. He drew his dagger, cut a slice. Venison, apples, and spice complemented one another. He swallowed, took another bite. I didn’t know we had cinnamon in stock, he thought. I’ll have to take a better inventory soon.
Talk and song ebbed and flowed, growing freer as the people drank. Occasionally somebody would have a special story of Thorolf, and the room would hush as they told it.
One of Thorolf’s men spoke. “Do you remember that merchant from Saint George? Proud as a peacock, and dressed like one, with six bodyguards in silk? Turned down Thorolf’s invitation, he did. Claimed a pavilion from Saint George was better lodging than any greathall here in a howling wilderness whose only virtue was fur-bearing animals.”
“Didn’t he snub the Bishop, too?” another voice added.
“Well, Thorolf sent Otkel out. He got one of the fellow’s cooks drunk, and found that the merchant was running short of absinthe. Nasty stuff, that. Thorolf doctored some absinthe up with a strong purgative—who can taste anything else beside the wormwood?—and stocked up all the wine merchants, with strict instructions.
“Next thing you know, here come two of the peacock’s guards, off to get the best doctor in town. ‘Our master has been taken ill!’ they said. Well, he’d actually just had a drink of freshly-purchased absinthe. We took ’em with no trouble.
“We sent a litter to fetch the merchant ‘to the doctor,’ and as soon as he and the remaining guards were away from the camp, we took them, too. Hit ’em over the head, stripped ’em, and left ’em in the ditch. We were disguised, of course.
“Thorolf ‘just
The servants had set out trestles while everybody was at the funeral, and there were many delicacies: jams and honey and sweet cakes of maple sugar, formed into figures; pots of butter and little loafs of white wheat-bread; last year’s winter apples, preserved in the cool caves of the river-bluffs. Drinking-horns were scattered about, and an enormous horn at the head of the table. Great trenchers of barley bread rimmed the trestle board, and sweating cooks were bringing a huge roast up the stairs from the cook-house in the yard.
The guests scattered into the room and took seats on the benches around the trestles. Bursts of talk and of silence alternated. Then Otkel raised his hands. “Dear friends, we are here to celebrate Thorolf. Let’s do so.” He raised the horn from the head of the table, freshly filled to the brim, and drank until he was forced to quit for air. “Ah,” he said, wiping his moustache, and handed the horn to Leif, still very full. Leif made a valiant attempt to drain it, but there was still ale left when he handed it on.
Otkel looked at Thorolf’s high-seat. Tomorrow, he thought, and sat in his usual place on the bench next to it.
Servants moved about, carving meat and filling horns with ale. And now a bard sang in a clear voice, verses made that day in honor of Thorolf. There was a hush, then one of the Northmen who’d been at his horn quite seriously knocked over a bowl of apples. They went rolling across the table, thumping to the floor, accompanied by gales of mirth. At the foot of the table two Northmen wept. The bard began another poem.
Otkel sat in his chair next to the empty high-seat, and sipped his ale. He’d taken an extremely large drink, that first pull at his horn, and now of all times, his wits should not be dulled.
One of the servants set a pie before him. The odor of cinnamon was heavy in the air, and Otkel suddenly realized how hungry he was. He drew his dagger, cut a slice. Venison, apples, and spice complemented one another. He swallowed, took another bite. I didn’t know we had cinnamon in stock, he thought. I’ll have to take a better inventory soon.
Talk and song ebbed and flowed, growing freer as the people drank. Occasionally somebody would have a special story of Thorolf, and the room would hush as they told it.
One of Thorolf’s men spoke. “Do you remember that merchant from Saint George? Proud as a peacock, and dressed like one, with six bodyguards in silk? Turned down Thorolf’s invitation, he did. Claimed a pavilion from Saint George was better lodging than any greathall here in a howling wilderness whose only virtue was fur-bearing animals.”
“Didn’t he snub the Bishop, too?” another voice added.
“Well, Thorolf sent Otkel out. He got one of the fellow’s cooks drunk, and found that the merchant was running short of absinthe. Nasty stuff, that. Thorolf doctored some absinthe up with a strong purgative—who can taste anything else beside the wormwood?—and stocked up all the wine merchants, with strict instructions.
“Next thing you know, here come two of the peacock’s guards, off to get the best doctor in town. ‘Our master has been taken ill!’ they said. Well, he’d actually just had a drink of freshly-purchased absinthe. We took ’em with no trouble.
“We sent a litter to fetch the merchant ‘to the doctor,’ and as soon as he and the remaining guards were away from the camp, we took them, too. Hit ’em over the head, stripped ’em, and left ’em in the ditch. We were disguised, of course.
“Thorolf ‘just
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