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  Einar regarded his cousin’s bulky upper torso, the round packs of muscle where his arm met his shoulder and the bulging ball of muscle on each of his upper arms and contemplated that Hrolf’s threat was a serious one.

  Thirty-One

  While most of the hall continued drinking and talking, wrapped up in their own groups of merriment, those around Einar and Hrolf left their own seats and began to gather in a circle round the two men, anticipating some entertainment. An excited chatter bubbled all around as people speculated about what was happening.

  The slave, Skar had spoken to, returned, now carrying a wooden tray which bore two huge drinking horns set on wooden stands that kept them upright. The woman was accompanied by another slave girl who was struggling to carry a large earthenware jug that was brimming with frothy ale.

  Skar leaned over the table and grinned at Einar and Hrolf in turn.

  ‘Men,’ he said, as the slave set the horns on the table. ‘This is a time-honoured trial of strength, capability and character.’

  He lifted one drinking horn and set it before Hrolf. The second he set before Einar. They were huge, possibly the same length as a man’s arm, and Einar wondered what size of an ox these horns had once belonged to. Glancing up at the enormous deer antlers mounted above the high seat, he wondered if Ireland was a land full of giant beasts. Intricate carvings snaked round the horns and the mouth and tips were covered by gleaming silver. Einar was curious to see a line of little holes had been bored through the side of the horns running from the mouth to the bottom, each one about the breadth of two fingers apart. Ivory pegs, each one bearing intricate carvings of twisting beasts, were inserted through the holes to stop whatever liquid was in the horns spilling out.

  ‘The Gods themselves play this contest,’ Skar continued. ‘The mighty Thor beat Utgarda-Loki at it.’

  Einar began to realise what was about to happen. He knew the tale well. While adventuring in the strange, dangerous Outerworld of the Jötnar, Thor had come to a mysterious hall that belonged to a giant called Utgarda-Loki, who was especially skilled in magic. Loki challenged Thor to a drinking contest. Einar, though, did not think much of whatever religious teaching Skar had had. As he remembered the story, Thor lost.

  Skar poured a gushing draught of ale from the jug into both the horns, filling them until the froth foamed over their rims and flowed down the outsides.

  ‘The idea is to out-drink your opponent,’ the tall Viking explained. ‘You must choose a peg, then drink until the level of ale in the horn is lower than that peg. Your opponent must match you or lose the contest. When you set the horn down, I pull out the peg you pointed to. To demonstrate, imagine Einar says he will drink to the third peg down. He drinks from the horn until he thinks he had lowered the ale in the horn to below the level of the third peg. If, in fact, he has not…’

  With a flourish, Skar grasped the third peg from the top of one of the horns between thumb and forefinger, his little finger ostentatiously raised. He pulled the peg out, releasing a stream of amber ale from the hole it had filled.

  ‘… he loses.’ He went on. ‘And will have been proved to have made an empty threat. As the one with the grievance, the Orkneyjar should go first.’

  He nodded at Hrolf, who made a slight frown but grasped the horn before him. ‘Let’s see what the farm boy is really made of, eh?’ he said. He pointed at the second peg down from the lip of the horn then lifted the horn to his mouth. Einar watched as Hrolf’s throat worked, his eyes staring into the horn to watch the level of the ale. After a short while he stopped and set the horn back on the table, cuffing his hand across his mouth to wipe away the foam.

  Skar leaned forward and, with a dramatic flourish, yanked the second down peg out of the horn. No ale flowed from the hole. The tall man nodded at Einar. It was now up to him to match the amount downed.

  Einar lifted his drinking horn to his lips. It was heavy and he knew straight away that it held a lot of ale. Even the draught required to sink the level one peg would be prodigious. No wonder Hrolf’s eyes were watering.

  As he looked down into the dark ale within the horn, the aroma of herbs mixed with the smell of malt wafted up. There was something else too, an almost floral smell. Skar noticed the look of slight puzzlement on his face.

  ‘It’s a special brew they make here,’ the big Viking said. ‘Some parts of Scotland make it too. It’s brewed with heather. The recipe’s a closely guarded secret but it will knock your head off.’

  Einar took a deep breath, tilted the horn and drank. The bitter liquid filled his mouth and throat and under different circumstances he would have said that the taste was quite pleasant. He kept a wary eye on the level of the liquid in the horn. If anything he would have to over-drink to make sure that the level fell below the next peg. If he stopped short he would not get a second chance. His throat worked and his chest began to protest the lack of air so he forced himself to pause, horn still to his lips, while he took a breath through his nose. Then Einar continued, sinking several more large gulps. When he judged he had drunk enough, he set the horn down, a huge sigh bursting from his mouth, followed by a huge involuntary belch that took even him by surprise. The gathered crowd laughed but Einar blushed, catching the disgusted frown on the face of the princess.

  With a flourish, Skar grasped the peg in the horn and drew it out. No ale ran from the hole. Einar had drunk enough. Cheers broke out as the onlookers saw that their entertainment was going to continue. Coins exchanged hands as men placed more bets and stakes were raised.

  ‘Over to you,’ Skar said to Hrolf, pausing to fill his own drinking horn from the jug of heather ale. ‘What’s your challenge?’

  Hrolf pointed to the next peg down, lifted the horn and the contest resumed. He finished, the peg was removed and no liquid escaped. Einar, relieved that the challenge was not as big as the first, again matched him and again the crowd cheered. The round was repeated but this time as Einar thought he was approaching his measure there was a gurgling sound and he realised it was the sound of the tip of the horn starting to empty. The drink gushed up the horn and washed over his lips. Einar had to make desperate gulps to stop it rushing out and spilling down his chin.

  ‘You have to finish it now,’ Skar said loudly. ‘It’s passed the last peg.’

  Einar felt like he was drowning. Ale seemed to be filling his mouth, his throat, his nose. Panic started to surge within his chest then he caught sight of the gloating look on his cousin’s face across the table. Hrolf had spotted that he was in trouble and sensed victory.

  This gave Einar the encouragement he needed. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to relax, letting the ale flow down his throat, forcing the panic to sink along with the liquid into his guts. There was a loud gurgle as liquid flowed out of the tip of the horn. After a couple more aggressive swallows, Einar felt the last of the ale run into his mouth and down his throat and he was able to breathe again. He gasped and slammed the horn back to the table. His chest felt as though it was about to burst, then another great involuntary belch erupted from his throat and the pressure eased. A rush of sour foam came back up his throat into his mouth but he knew he could not spit it out. Blinking hard he swallowed, forcing the vomit-ale mixture back down into his belly. This time it stayed down.

  He looked up, cuffing foam from his chin and water from his right eye. His cousin was glaring at him and for the first time Einar thought he detected a look of concern on his face.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ Skar roared, clapping a huge paw on Einar’s shoulder. The blow made him rock backward on the bench. ‘I thought that one would be the end of you. Now: the challenger!’

  He gushed ale into Einar’s horn again so it once more brimmed and foam overflowed the top to slide down the sides.

  Skar nodded to Hrolf who scowled in Einar’s direction, then lifted the horn. Einar watched Hrolf’s throat work as he guzzled down the ale. To his dismay Hrolf appeared to not be having the same problems that he had and was swallowing
the drink almost with ease. The surrounding crowd saw this too and began to chant ‘Drink!’ in unison, getting faster and faster as Hrolf tilted the horn higher and higher until it was emptied.

  Einar swore to himself and a sense of dread at the thought that another round of the contest now lay ahead crept into his chest. Hrolf set the horn down on the table with a bang. He glared at Einar, his cheeks flushed, his eyes watery and his top lip curled in a snarl of triumph. Einar glanced sideways and his heart plunged further as he saw Princess Affreca, an intense expression creasing her brow, watching among the crowd.

  Hrolf’s eyes, already streaming, suddenly rolled around. He hiccoughed and panic spread across his face. Hrolf bowed his head, pushing his chin into his chest then his mouth yawned open and a huge gush of vomit poured out and down the front of his fine, embroidered tunic. A cheer erupted from the crowd as Hrolf attempted to rise from his seat. He fixed his eyes on Einar and for a moment Einar thought he was going to reach across the table and attack him, but instead he lurched off balance and stumbled backwards. Another torrent of sick erupted from his mouth, making further mess of his fine clothes and sending onlookers running to escape being splattered.

  Einar realised his cousin was hopelessly drunk. He was feeling an intense buzz in his own head but Hrolf was far gone. Unable to regain his balance, Hrolf collapsed, falling back, bouncing off the table then rolling over the bench and onto the floor. The crowd cheered again in unashamed delight.

  A couple of the Orkneymen, horrified at seeing the jarl’s son in such a state, rushed forwards to help him. They grabbed Hrolf beneath the arms and hauled him up to his feet but he slipped down again as if the bones in his legs had turned to water. He let out an incoherent shout.

  ‘Take him out of here!’ Ivar’s voice thundered through the noise. All turned to see the old man, his face white with anger, glaring at his drunk nephew. The Orkneymen half-dragged, half-shoved Hrolf towards the door as he lolled between them, struggling ineffectually and shouting unintelligibly.

  Einar was in the middle of a maelstrom of excited shouting and cheers. Hands slapped his back and shoulders. Skar laid a heavy paw on his right shoulder and shoved his face close, grinning like an idiot.

  ‘Well done, lad!’ he roared. ‘Well done indeed.’

  Einar felt a warm glow within, glad for the rare instance of getting something other than derision from the Wolf Coat.

  ‘Old Red Beard, that Thunder God you’re so keen on, has blessed you with a thirst as big as his own,’ Ulrich said.

  Einar rose to his feet, swaying as he did so. His head was buzzing from the effects of the ale and he realised how drunk he was. It was a close run thing between him and Hrolf as to who would be first to succumb.

  ‘Wait!’

  The chatter subsided at the sharp sound of a woman’s voice cutting through the air. Einar closed one eye to try to focus. For a moment he saw two of everything then the doubles merged and he saw that the princess was now sitting in the place Hrolf had left empty.

  ‘The contest is not over,’ Affreca said. ‘My betrothed may have had too much but I will uphold our honour.’

  She lifted the jug and filled the drinking horn once more. She cast a look at Einar that sent a shiver down his spine.

  Einar was aware of the people around him looking at him. He swayed back and forwards for a moment. Affreca lifted the horn and began to drink. For several long moments her white throat worked as she swallowed the ale. Then she finished, put the horn back on the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  She held out a hand to Einar.

  ‘Your turn,’ she smiled, her eyes sparkling like fire reflected on a frozen river at midnight.

  Einar held up both hands, palms outstretched. He shook his head, the movement making him tilt wildly to his left.

  ‘No,’ he said, steadying himself. ‘No more. The victory is yours, my lady.’

  The hall erupted into cheers and shouts once more. Einar’s prowess and magnanimity were praised. A flurry of hands clapped him on the shoulders and back. A full drinking horn was pressed into his less than grateful hand. The towering figure of Skar loomed before him.

  ‘Well done, lad! You’ve done well this night,’ the Wolf Coat shouted to be heard above the noise of the crowd. ‘You’ve shown us you have some rare talents. True gifts from Odin. Now let’s get this party really started!’

  Einar simply nodded, the effects of the ale numbing his tongue and drowning his wits. He felt like he was wrapped in a warm, comfortable wool blanket. The music began again, horns of ale were refilled and everyone began dancing and singing. The night merged into a blur of laughter and songs, loud banter and wild dancing while some men punched each other in drunken squabbles. And through it all Einar could not tear his gaze away from a pair of bewitching green eyes.

  Thirty-Two

  Einar awoke, and almost immediately regretted it.

  It was morning. That he could tell by the daylight pushing its way through cracks in the daub-and-wattle wall. Pain stabbed through his head and he screwed his eyes shut once more. The elves his mother claimed only shot their arrows at drunk people had got him again.

  He squinted, taking stock of his surroundings, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He was lying flat on his back, sunk deep in comfortable, fresh straw, under a rich embroidered woollen blanket. He cautiously opened his eyes wider. Looking down he saw he still wore the same clothes as the night before. He could not remember how he got to bed and wondered who had taken him there. He knew he was not in the room set aside for the Orkney crew. Otherwise he would have been surrounded by snoring men.

  Einar went to sit up and found he could not. A brief moment of panic dissolved as he realised that there was something heavy on his right arm that was preventing him getting up.

  He froze.

  ‘Oh no…’ The words escaped his mouth in a disbelieving whisper as he saw why he could not get up. Lying on his right arm was Princess Affreca. She was fast asleep. Einar stared at her in disbelief, wondering if he was perhaps still asleep and in the depths of a dream. What on earth had happened the night before? It seemed obvious. Desperately he racked his mind for any memory but nothing surfaced. He could remember dancing, drinking more, raucous singing, but everything was all blurred together. He certainly did not remember anything between him and Affreca.

  The princess was snoring gently. A trail of drool ran from the left corner of her lips but Einar could not help thinking she was still beautiful.

  Was she naked?

  The thought blazed in his mind like a bonfire. Realising that she could wake with any movement, Einar carefully moved his left hand to the edge of the blanket where, with ginger fingers, he clasped the wool and prepared to lift it away from Affreca’s chest.

  ‘What is going on here?’

  The words tore through the air like a volcano erupting. Einar blinked, dropping the blanket again. He looked round to see his cousin, Hrolf, standing in the doorway. Einar’s mouth worked without sound as he stared, eyes as wide as the moon, while Hrolf glared back, taking in the scene that lay before him. His question seemed superfluous. The look of stunned disbelief on Hrolf’s face quickly dissolved as his nostrils flared and his cheeks flushed red with fury.

  Einar pulled his arm from under Affreca and held both hands up. The princess grunted and opened one eye.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ Einar said, unsure which one he was actually talking to.

  ‘Oh it’s not, is it?’ Hrolf said, beginning to stalk into the room. His right hand fell to the hilt of the knife sheathed at his belt. ‘Am I not looking at my betrothed, lying in a bed with my cousin?’

  He ripped the knife from its sheath. The long blade glimmered in the weak light.

  ‘You’re dead. You’re both dead,’ Hrolf said, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch.

  Einar sat up, his eyes searching the room for anything that he could use to protect himself. There was nothing. A
stool sat near the door but there was no way he could get to it before Hrolf got to him.

  The room darkened momentarily as another figure appeared in the door.

  There was a flurry of movement as the newcomer brought something down hard on Hrolf’s head from behind. Hrolf froze, his eyes rolled up into his head then he pitched forward, sprawling face first onto the floor, knocked out.

  Standing in the doorway was Ulrich. He had what looked like a large lump of firewood in his hand.

  ‘We’re in trouble,’ he said. ‘We have to go. Come on.’

  Einar scrambled out of the bed, brushing straw from his clothes and hair. He turned and saw the princess getting up as well. To his slight disappointment she was not naked, but wore a long linen underskirt that stretched to her knees. Confusion played havoc with Einar’s mind.

  ‘I had too much to drink last night,’ he said. ‘Did we…?’

  Affreca was in the act of pulling on her dress, which lay discarded beside the bed. His words made her stop and look at him, an angry frown creasing her brow.

  ‘It’s just… I can’t remember,’ Einar stumbled on, gripped by a panic as great as the one he had felt when Hrolf had drawn his knife.

  Affreca scowled and resumed pulling on her dress.

  ‘If we had, you would remember, trust me,’ she said, her voice laden with caustic venom.

  ‘Well, this is a stroke of luck,’ Ulrich said, clearly noticing for the first time who the woman was. ‘She’ll make a good hostage.’

  ‘Hostage? What’s going on?’ Einar demanded. He saw that Ulrich too was still dressed in the fine clothes he had worn to the feast the night before.

  ‘I’ll tell you as we go,’ Ulrich said. ‘Hurry up. We need to get moving.’

  ‘What about him?’ Einar cocked his head at the prone body of his cousin on the floor.

  ‘We should kill him, but he’ll help us as another hostage,’ Ulrich said. ‘You’ll have to carry him.’