Page 98 of Heart of Winter
“Thefighting.”
~*~
While the guests milled about the center of the room, the serving boys began to break down some of the trestles. A few whoops and glad shouts went up from the men.
“What’s happening?” Oliver asked, and then did a double-take when he realized it was no longer Bjorn standing at his side.
Erik sipped from a pewter mug, and nodded toward the activity: men were moving toward one another, talking and gesticulating, looking eager. Negotiating, it looked like. “It’s time for the fighting.”
For a moment, admiring his profile, and the intricacy of his braids, sapphires winking down the length of them, the word didn’t register. But then Oliver said, “I’m sorry.Fighting?”
“Only friendly sparring matches. Contests of strength, more like. Blunted or wooden swords, even, and after they embrace and share a drink together.” He slanted a coy look down at Oliver. “I suppose there’s dancing and jugglers at Drakewell parties.”
“Naturally. You great barbarian.”
Erik grinned and passed him the cup. It was wine – strong wine. A darker, drier red than what he’d had at dinner; Oliver took one sip and felt the heat of it all down his throat.
“You could make yourself a fool on that,” he said, passing it back.
Erik hummed. “Come sit down again. The combatants will want my blessing.”
“And mine as well, I should think,” Oliver joked, rolling his eyes.
But Erik said, “One day they will, most likely.”
They climbed the dais again, and resumed their seats – only, not quite. The boys and Bjorn had stayed below on the floor, at the edges of the crowd. Leif had a wooden practice sword lifted over his head, stretching out his toro in preparation for a match. Revna was already seated at the high table, in the seat that had been Oliver’s.
“Sit by Erik,” she said, breezily, lifting her wine cup and not meeting his eyes.
Oliver made a face, but complied. He supposed if people were already talking – if even Ragnar had noticed his beads – there was no sense pretending he was just any old guest.
Oliver was struck with the absurd thought, as he sat, that his father would be staring at him slack-jawed and gaping if he were here now. His worthless, sickly bastard son seated in pride of place beside a king – one who’d woven lover’s beads into his hair. He chuckled, before he could catch himself, and Erik sent him an inquiring look.
“Life is funny, that’s all,” he said.
Erik studied him a moment, and then smiled. “Yes. I suppose so.”
The large expanse of flagstone floor between the high table and the decorated fir stood empty, now. Two men stepped from the lines of spectators, wooden practice swords in their hands, and approached the dais. Bowed low, fists pressed to their chests.
“Your majesty,” they said in unison, and then straightened. They looked like brothers, with light brown hair, and green eyes, and similar builds: strong and a bit thick in the middle.
Erik acknowledged them with a deep, respectful nod, and the combatants broke apart and squared off from one another. Bjorn, acting as referee, gave the signal, and they engaged.
Erik leaned in close. “Absalon and Adils. Twins,” he explained in an undertone, below the crack of the wooden blades coming together. “They fight best with axes, so this is mostly a chance to practice under Bjorn’s gaze and improve their skill with swords.”
“Shore up your grip, lad,” Bjorn said. Adils shuffled his hands and was better braced for his brother’s next swing. “Good. Now, watch your feet.”
The match progressed as more of a lesson. It ended in a draw, with both brothers noticeably lighter on their feet by the end of it. They grinned as they wiped sweat-damp brows, and the audience clapped and cheered politely. The twins approached Bjorn to offer their thanks, clasping his brawny forearm in turns, then offered quick bows to Erik before melting back into the crowd.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Oliver said, much more relaxed than he had been to start.
“Just wait,” Erik said.
“Who’s next?” Bjorn called.
“I am,” a crisp voice rang out. A tall, clean-shaven, slender young man with white-blond hair gathered along the crown of his head in two narrow braids strode forward, unclasping his fur-topped cloak as he went so it fell to the floor dramatically, and he stepped away from it in layers of fitted gray wool and well-oiled brown leather. His only ornamentation was an engraved silver belt buckle, one that cinched his belt tight around a narrow waist. He walked with shoulders back, and head lifted at an arrogant angle, his steps dancer-light on the flags. He carried a sheathed short sword on his hip, and drew it, the sharpened steel rasping against the leather.
Rather than approach the dais, he called out, “Your majesty, I’ve challenged Ulf Gorsun, if he hasn’t scurried off yet in fear.”
