Now, with the hard reality of Hakon's House laid out before him, all such fancies turned vaporous and vanished. So too did his blithe assumptions of the night before. He could not scale walls of that size; he could not cross the moat. The gate was the only entrance, but that meant crossing the bridge in full view of all. Not just ordinary people, either – he saw guards or lookouts stationed on the wall. At night the gates might well be closed; he had to do it in the day.
Halli did his best to suppress the hunger gnawing in his stomach and the leaden feeling in his limbs. Yes, it was a formidable obstacle. Yes, the place was bigger than he'd guessed. So what? Would Svein have balked at it and scurried home? No. He would have found a way.
He thought hard. Down-valley folk were fair-haired, pale-skinned; as a rule they were tall and slender too. A short, squat, black-maned stranger would stand out a mile if he tried waltzing up to the door. Somehow he would have to hide as he passed the gate. In a cart, perhaps – under corn, vegetables, even manure . . . Halli set his jaw, grim-faced. Whatever it took, it must be done. Hakon's people were violent, aggressive and suspicious; one sight of him and he would be seized and dragged to the whipping post, even before they guessed his mission. Halli clenched his fists at the thought of their cruel vindictiveness. No matter: soon he would slay Olaf and there would be wailing in their hall!
'You all right there?' a cheery voice said. 'Anything I can do?'
Halli looked up: a man had appeared over the brow of the hill. He was tall and strapping, in early middle age. His fair hair was tied back, his beard shaved short and squared under the cheeks. His tunic had orange-red slashes on the shoulder, indicating his House affiliation. The bronze circlet in his hair shone in the morning sun. He had an open, pleasant face, flushed with walking.
Halli cleared his throat. 'Er, no, no – I'm fine.'
'Thought you looked a little worried about something. Can't have that on Hakon's Day!' The man slung a bag down from his back and wiped his brow with a sleeve. 'It's a hot one, this late in the year! How far've you come, then?'
Halli hesitated. 'Well . . .'
'You're not from these parts, I can tell.'
'No . . .'
The man smiled. 'Ketil's, is it? Egil's maybe? We get a few beggars coming down from Ketil's after the floods they had in spring.'
'Egil's House,' Halli said, at random. 'And excuse me, but I'm not a beggar.'
'No?' The man stepped back a little. 'I hope you haven't got a plague. If it's dank mottle, you shouldn't be out of your pen.'
'I'm not a beggar, not ill, just a little jaded.' Halli gestured irritably at his filthy, ragged clothes. 'It's been a long journey, that's all.'
'Well, welcome to Hakon's lands!' The man patted Halli's shoulder in a friendly manner. 'I'm Einar. Hungry? You look as if you could do with something.'
'Oh. Yes, please.' Halli watched agog as the man produced bread, cheese and a skin of wine from his bag. He tried hard not to snatch them from his hand; as it was, he ate and drank with unseemly haste.
'You're in rough shape,' Einar observed. 'They ought to treat you better up at Egil's. Here at Hakon's, our Arbiter, Hord, distributes grain to all when times are hard. Even in bad years we get on fine.'
Halli nodded, grunted, sucked at the wine skin.
'Yes, great Hord is a fine leader,' Einar went on. 'A hard, strong man, brave and resolute. He's brought wealth back to this House, as you can see just by looking. He's got big ideas, has Hord, and the energy of the heroes!' He glanced pleasantly at Halli. 'But, still. we can't all be great men, can we? Each of us must travel his own small path. What brings you down this way, then?'
Halli stuffed the last of the cheese into this mouth and swallowed. He was a little out of breath. 'I . . . I just wanted to see this famous House, maybe find work.'
'Well, I don't know about work, but if you want to see Hakon's you've come on the right day. It's the anniversary of our Founder's triumph at Battle Rock! There'll be Trow shies and drinking and . . .' The man waved a hand in the direction of the House. 'Look, come on with me and see it for yourself.'
Halli blinked. 'Will I be allowed in?'
'Of course. Why not? All friends are welcome. Even ones as ragged and pitiful as you. Besides, it is a day for charity. Would you like me to help you with your pack?'
'No. No, thank you.'
Down the road they went together, towards the looming House. Up the long earth ramp, high above the fields and salt flats.
Halli said: 'It is an impressive place.'
'Isn't it? Hord has had the walls raised and reinforced. He has men patrolling them night and day. It was lax in his father's time.'
'Who does he fear?'
Einar the lowlander laughed. 'No one! But this is how it was in Hakon's day, and Hord wishes to emulate him! Many of us menfolk practise the old skills – we play with staff and arrow, we go hunting on the heights.'
'Past the cairns?'
Einar's eyes were wide; he made a protective sign. 'What? Are you mad? Now, see here – the new House gates, made of oak and iron!'
They had crossed the bridge, following a steady flow of people. Under a great arched gate they went, into a narrow street. Instantly the light was dimmer, all blue-grey shadow, with narrow triangles of brightness on the flagstones where the sharp blue sky showed through. The buildings hugged close together, white plaster on wood, flowers hanging from the eaves. Halli walked up a little rise, cool now, out of the sun, where the stones were smooth and curved with the feet of years. The food and wine had done their work: he felt newly eager, strong with purpose. Even so, the scale of it all astonished him. He passed open shop-fronts – a cooper, a leatherworker, a man making toys, a potter, a weaver, a stall with necklaces and brooches glinting in the shade. At Svein's House all this was done too, but only in the cottage backrooms when men came in from the fields; goods were exchanged informally in the central yard, not presented so splendidly for sale.
The way opened out, the buildings drew back. Ahead of them stretched a wide space, as filled with people as a spring meadow is with flowers. At its far end, sheer and tall as the bluffs above the gorge, rose Hakon's hall. The doors at its centre, sheltered beneath a gabled porch held up by great wood pillars, were themselves almost as high as the hall at Svein's. Halli's neck ached as he gazed up at the distant roof.
He blew his cheeks out, scowling. Yes, it was big. Yes, it was imposing! But none of that mattered. He would do what he had come to do.
So far all was well. He had gained entry to the House with unexpected ease. Now for the next stage. He scanned the yard, narrowed eyes passing across the crowd, noting with surprise the mix of folk within it – there were plenty of wiry, dark-haired upland men and women dotted amid the taller, fleshier local throng.
Here and there about the yard stood booths with scarlet awnings, where people played games of chance and skill, took drinks or listened to storytellers and balladeers. Everywhere was laughter, faces flushed and merry. Halli watched it all, unsmiling. It would be easy enough to detach himself from Einar, disappear among the crowds: but what then? Find somewhere to hide till dark?
Einar nudged him with his elbow. 'How's this for a House, friend? Free beer and entertainment! As people finish their work, they gather. And tonight those of us who are invited will toast our Founder in the hall!'
'A feast?'
'You won't see it, I'm afraid. No foreigners in the House after dark. They'll have sent you out by then.'
'Will Hord and Olaf be there?' Halli asked carelessly. 'And Ragnar Hakonsson?'
'Hord and Ragnar, for sure. Not Olaf though. He's sick.'
Halli looked at him, heart pounding. 'Sick?'
'Trow-stricken. His horse stumbled near the boundary and Olaf was touched by the shadow of a cairn.' Einar made another sign. 'May Hakon help him recover! Like his brother, he is a noble man.'
'Poor, poor fellow.' Halli ran his tongue across his lips. 'I suppose he will be in bed. Where would his r
oom be, do you think? In the hall?'
But Einar was suddenly distracted. His eyes sparkled; he craned to see above the crowd. 'My friend, you are in luck! Here comes our Arbiter now!'
Halli's eyes widened; he turned and saw, far off amongst the thickest mass of merrymakers, the figure of Hord Hakonsson. His head was easily visible, for he was taller than the rest. His broad, bear-like shoulders swung from side to side. All gave way wherever he went, clapping backs, clasping hands, roaring out greetings to acquaintances he spied.
Einar said: 'Is he not an impressive man?'
Halli spoke uneasily. 'Very.' He pulled the hood of his fleece over his head.
'Perhaps you'll get to meet him for yourself. He is heading our way.'
Halli stepped back a few paces, gaze flicking left and right in search of escape. What Einar said was true: Hord was approaching. He wore a fur-rimmed cloak, held at the neck by a gold swan clasp. His voice, his swagger, the very drift of the cloak – all were heavy with latent power.
'Hey, friend,' Einar said. 'Where are you going? He'll speak with you.'
'No, no, I am not worthy.'
'Oh, don't say that. On Hakon's Day even great Hord will look kindly upon your wretchedness. Here, I'll draw his attention to you.' He raised his voice. 'Arbiter—!'
'No, please—'
'Arbiter!'
Peering out frantically from deep within his hood, Halli saw Hord look up towards Einar and raise a hand in greeting. He began to approach, only to be intercepted by three squealing women of the House.
Einar grinned at Halli. 'Don't fret. He will be over in a moment.' He grasped Halli's cringing arm. 'Do not be so shy. I hunt with him and know him well. Do not be abashed, despite your squalor. He is honourable to his friends.'
Halli pulled desperately at the hand upon his sleeve. 'No, listen! I must not go near him!'
Einar's smile flickered. 'But why?'
'I – I . . . You were right before, I do have several curious ailments that should not be spread around, least of all to a great man such as Hord.' Halli was retreating as he spoke. 'Suppurating sores, that sort of thing. You won't want to hear the details. So I should stay well clear.'
Now the smile was gone. 'Wait! You were happy enough to be intimate with me.'
'Ah, yes, but I – I took good care to remain downwind of you as we walked. The breeze blew the corrosive stench of my afflictions out to sea. Here, where it is so close and humid, I can promise nothing. But what do we care? Let's get some ale, link arms together and drink to our friendship from each other's cups.'
Einar's face had become a trifle pale. 'Thank you, no. Perhaps it would be best if you left our House.'
'Yes, yes. I will.' Halli backed away. 'Thank you for your help! Goodbye.' Einar was lost to him amid the crowd.
There was no time to waste. With Hord – and perhaps Ragnar – prowling about the yard, it was not a place to linger. Halli angled his way amid the fair-booths towards the corner of the hall. Somewhere in that great white building Olaf would be abed. A sickly, helpless, Trow-stricken Olaf. Halli smiled thinly. It sounded as if his job was more than half-done.
Still, it was no small matter to get inside the hall, carry out the killing and escape unseen. He reached up a hand and touched the silver belt beneath his jerkin. As always its cold weight reassured him, and at that very moment he saw, a short way off along the side of the hall, another smaller porch and door.
Halli flitted closer, weaving his way among the crowd. He saw a man in servant's wear rolling a small barrel in through the door. Now it was empty, left ajar.
Halli paused beside a Trow shy and watched the porch. Beside him boys and girls stood hurling pebbles towards a set of slender poles, on each of which was balanced a turnip, painted with a black, leering, many-fanged face. A girl's stone hit directly: a head went flying amid a chorus of cheers.
Still the porch was quiet. No one passed in or out.
Halli darted forward. As he did so, two servant women bustled out, faces red and sweating, and hurried away down the side of the hall. Halli, who had veered off and taken up a attitude of extreme attention at a sweetmeat booth, wheeled round, took a swift look all about and strode purposefully, unhurriedly, in through the porch door.
Darkness, shadows, a pleasant mustiness: an immense storeroom filled with boxes, barrels and sacks of grain. From ceiling hooks hung onions, chard, herbs and carrot bunches; smoked meats in long rows vanishing into the gloom. Halli took a deep breath – the room was almost the size of Svein's own hall – and hurried along the main aisle towards a distant flight of steps.
Footsteps. Halli crouched and skittered sideways like a crab behind a pile of flour sacks. He ducked his head low between his knees and held his breath.
A few feet from him the two servant women passed; he heard the rustle of their kirtles, the whisper of their breathing.
All was still; Halli straightened, shouldered his pack and stole silently along the aisle.
The steps were whitewashed, broad and worn; the light of day shone down on them. Halli peered up; he glimpsed soaring roof beams, the haze of vast space. Pressing close against the wall, he climbed swiftly, fearing at any moment to meet someone hurrying down.
With each step more of Hakon's hall was revealed to him. Roof beams became joined to slender arches, which sat upon great columns. Between the columns shone brilliant panels of light – slender windows through which the autumn sun blazed fiercely. Now the walls beneath the windows came into view: they were hung with stags' antlers and the skulls of beasts; fan-arrays of ancient spears; an endless row of black-stained braziers; tapestries and scarlet flags.
Halli's head broke level with the hall floor. He saw great rows of tables stretching away left and right; a central roasting pit, with an ox already spitted; servants on all sides, setting cups and knives upon the tables, bringing plates from somewhere out of view.
No one looked his way. Without hesitation, he scrambled up the last two steps and, bent double, scurried to the nearest table. Under it he went, amongst the trestle legs and rushes, and crouched still.
Time passed. Servants bustled, bringing supplies up from the stores. Men climbed into the roasting pit and turned the ox upon its spit. A bell rang, perhaps within the kitchens, perhaps a call to lunch. One by one the servants flitted from the hall.
A small dark shape emerged from beneath the table, stood quiet, hunched like a hunting wolf. It looked to the left: saw the great hall doors standing closed – from beyond came the hubbub of the crowds. To the right, at the far end of the hall, a steep, straight staircase ran up beneath the windows to an upper balcony. There were doors leading from the balcony – two doors, maybe three. Below, behind the raised dais and the Law Seats, Halli saw other arches, some curtained, others bare and empty.
A fire burned strongly in an open hearth halfway along the hall. The tables were laid now, ready for the evening feast. The smell of roast meat filled the air.
So, where would Olaf be?
Halli's head tilted. He stared towards the balcony.
Up there.
His hand reached out to the table beside him and picked up a long thin carving knife. He walked between the tables towards the stairs.
Somewhere behind, a rattling, a sudden flare of noise from outside the hall. The great doors had opened. Halli cursed, ducked away, pressed himself behind a column. He heard Hord's voice then, loud, imperious; boots echoing on the flagstones.
'I don't care!' Hord said. 'Go see your uncle first and get him anything he wants. Then eat. You can stuff yourself stupid later anyhow.'
The boots passed by; Halli peered out, saw Hord striding away towards the drapes behind the dais. Up the staircase went Ragnar Hakonsson, blond, pale-faced and sour of expression. Halli saw him reach the balcony, open a door and disappear inside.
From a distance he heard Hord shouting, and resulting sounds of high activity. Halli guessed the servants would soon be back. His eyes darted around, looking for a h
iding place: there, close by his column, he saw a group of kegs and barrels, some upturned, others on their sides. All were empty; their contents transferred to kitchen or table. Could he . . . ?
He heard hurrying from the passages.
A jump, a wriggle; Halli was gone. A large barrel in the centre of the group rocked gently and was still. Its lid, which had been resting on the top of an adjoining cask, made a surreptitious jerking movement sideways, and at last fell into place.
Twenty servants scampered into the hall. Preparations for the feast went on.
* * *
Afternoon became evening; evening became night. The hall was filled with revellers. Hakon's name was cheered to the rooftops, men drank to Hord, his wife and son, his brother Olaf, and the greatness of the House. From a barrel in a corner of the hall gentle snoring noises sounded. No one heard, no one came near. The feast came to its end.
The men of Hakon's House departed, some to their rooms within the hall, others dispersing to the streets and countryside beyond. Down at the Trow wall a horn was blown and the House gates shut. The doors to the hall swung to; an elderly retainer drew its bolts. Others threw dirt on the hearthfire, dampening it down to a low red flicker. The last of the servants retired to their cots.
The hall was filled with shadows. The torches on the walls had dwindled and the light was a low, churning mix of orange and red.
Hord and Ragnar Hakonsson sat together at the central table, amid the debris of the feast.
Despite many hours' vigorous consumption, Hord appeared no different than he had that morning, save for a slight redness in the eyes. He cradled a wine cup in his hand and stared long at his son. On Ragnar the cares of the festival hung heavier; in the hall's light his face gleamed white as a mutton bone.
For the first time in many hours the barrel lid moved. It tilted. Two eyes blinked out impatiently.