He lurched to the tub. Though men and women were dipping from it as they liked, he filled his golden beaker and went about slopping ale into other vessels. Most of it splashed on the floor or onto clothes. Nobody said anything, but they looked. After a while he felt it.
“Whatever you wish,” he said. “Be your own servers if you want. But I, I will bring a drink over to my bath-brother there in the high seat.”
He pushed through the crowd back to the tub. Sticks had burned thin under a log in a fire-trench. They gave beneath it and it crunched downward. Sparks showered. Shadows flooded and ebbed.
Startled, his eyesight bewildered, the king stumbled. He fell forward, over the tub and into it. His brow struck the rim. In a splash like a wave that breaks on a reef, he went down under his ale.
Drunk, the guests were slow to understand what had happened and pull him out. Nor knew they what to do when he lay sprawled on the floor, breath and heartbeat still, unwinking eyes turned toward the high seat.
XXXIV
That year the weather around Yule was cold and calm. Folk swarmed to the offerings at Haven. The tents and booths of those who did not find housing ringed the holy shaw. By day the fires outside them sent smoke higher than the trees, by night the embers glowed redly up at the stars.
From farthest off, Bralund in Scania, came Eyjolf Lysirsson, which he had never done before at this season. He guessed what sorrow must be in his old friend and king, and wanted to stand by as best he was able.
The noise and stir became uproar on midwinter day. Low in the south, the sun shone heatlessly on the gathered beasts. Horses stamped and neighed, kine rolled their eyes and lowed, swine grunted and squealed and churned about in their pens. They knew something ill for them was toward, and the smell of their fear grew rank. But ropes snugged about their necks, strong hands took hold, and one by one they went bucking into the grove. Under its bare trees, before the halidom that stood at its heart, the altar stones waited. A hammer stunned, a knife slashed, blood spurted into bowls, the beast died and was dragged off, the next came up, while the crowding watchers shouted to the gods.
Thereupon they pressed into the building. It loomed long and lean, darkly timbered, three tiers of shingled roofs above rafter ends carved into dragon heads. With brushes newly made from willow switches, the offerers sprinkled its walls with blood, both outside and inside. The same hot red spattered the folk as they passed the door. A great fire burned within. Kettles hung above it, in which seethed the flesh of the slain. At the far end reared the figures of Odin with his spear, Thor with his hammer, Freyr with his upstanding yard. On the pillars were graven doings of the gods, how Fenris was bound, the Midgard worm drawn from the bottom of the sea, the riding of the golden boar. Deep ale casks stood near the fire, and a heap of drinking horns. There too was King Hadding. No women or hirelings, but housecarles of his, sweating in helmet and mail, filled those horns and handed them to him. He made the sign of blessing over each and passed it above the fire to a worshipper. The men took long to go around. They packed the floor. More casks had been set about for their use.
The king led them in draining the first draught to Odin, for victory and might, and the second to Thor, for freedom from evil beings. Thirdly they called on the Vanir for peace and good harvests. Thereafter they drank as they wished. Mostly they did so in remembrance of dear ones who were gone; but some of the younger raised the Bragi beaker and made loud vows to do this or that deed.
When the food was ready, the king blessed it too. The cooks ladled it out into bowls the worshipers had brought, soup with chunks of meat, fat, and leeks, for the otherworldly power which is in that herb. So did the Danes feast, guesting their gods.
Sunset was upon them when they left the halidom. In racketing gangs they sought their shelters and stoked their fires. Merriment would go on for two more days and nights before they wended home, and many a woman who had come along with her man, to partake in the rites that women held, would give birth nine months later.
Those who had housing had farther to go. No few followed the king as he rode to his hall. The moon was nearly full. A crisp layer of snow glittered with its light. Hoofbeats rang loud.
Eirik Björnsson was in front beside his lord. They spoke quietly together. “You seem wearied,” said the jarl.
“I am,” Hadding owned. “More weary than you know”
Eirik nodded. “I’ve marked it on you since we learned of King Hunding’s death, if not earlier. You should not let that burden you, lord. It was a mishap.”
Hadding shook his head. “It was more. He, my oath-brother, died untimely because of a lie that I spread.”
“Still, I say, a mishap.”
“No. I feel it in my marrow. Hel was angered by a grave-ale drunk for a living man. I fear ill luck unless a rightful weregild allays the affront; and the king’s luck is the kingdom’s.”
Eirik drew his cloak about him against the chill. “You’ve ever been closer to such things than other men. What are you thinking of?”
Hadding lifted his head beneath the stars. “If naught else, I will honor my oath-brother as he honored me.”
“With as great a feast—and a better outcome? Well, this is the time of year for it.”
“No.” Hadding laid a hand on the jarl’s arm. “I have no heart for giving hospitality. Stand by me now, as you have often done before.
