‘Be silent, unless you want me to cut out your tongue,’ he threatened. But both knew it was an idle threat. His half-brother was never serious, and he often made jests. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, all the women were fascinated by the man, and Danr was only too willing to accept their offerings. Alarr knew that his half-brother would find his way into a woman’s bed this night.
The scent of roasting meat lingered in the air, and both cattle and sheep had been slaughtered for the wedding feast. Sigurd had invited the leaders of neighbouring tribes, as well as their daughters. Undoubtedly, he would be trying to arrange future weddings to advance his own position. Although Sigurd was a petty king, it was never enough for him. He hungered for more status and greater power.
Alarr walked towards his father’s longhouse and found Sigurd waiting there. The older man had a satisfied expression on his face, though he was wearing only a simple woollen tunic and hose. His hair was greying, with threads of white mingled in his beard and hair. Even so, there was not a trace of weakness upon the man. His body was a warrior’s, lean and strong. Sigurd had bested many men in combat, even at his advanced age. ‘Are you ready?’
Alarr nodded, and they walked alongside one another in silence. Outside their settlement, his ancestors were buried within the Barrow. The graves of former warriors—his grandsire and those who had died before him—were waiting. There, Alarr would dig up a sword from one of the burial mounds. The weapon would become his, forged with the knowledge of his forebears, to be given to his firstborn son.
After a quarter-hour of walking in silence, Sigurd paused at the base of the Barrow and gestured for Alarr to choose. He was glad of it, for he already knew whose sword he wanted.
He climbed to the top of the Barrow and stopped in front of the grave that belonged to his uncle, who had died only a year ago, in battle. Hafr had trained him in sword fighting from the moment Alarr was strong enough to lift a weapon. There was no one else whose sword he wanted more.
He and his father dug alongside one another until they reached the possessions belonging to Hafr. Alarr tried to dispel the sense of foreboding that lingered while he respected the ashes of his uncle. The sword had been carefully wrapped in leather, and Alarr took it, uncovering the weapon. The iron glinted in the morning light, but it would need to be cleaned and sharpened.
‘Do you wish to take the sword?’ Sigurd asked quietly.
‘I do.’
His father then reached out to seize the weapon. Once he had given it over, Sigurd regarded him. ‘Much is expected of you with this marriage. Our kingdom of Maerr has risen to great power, and we need to strengthen our ties with the other jarls. You must conceive a son with Gilla immediately and ensure that our alliance is strong.’ He wrapped the sword in the leather once more and set it aside. ‘Perhaps my brother’s wisdom and strength will be yours, now that you have his sword.’
Alarr gave a nod, though he didn’t believe it. He wanted the sword because it gave him a tangible memory of his uncle. Hafr had been more of a father to him than Sigurd, whether he’d known it or not. Alarr had spent most of his life trying to gain Sigurd’s approval, to little avail.
They reburied the ashes of his uncle, along with Hafr’s worldly possessions, before returning to the settlement. Alarr walked towards the bathhouse, for it was time for the purification ritual. He had not seen Gilla since her arrival, but he had seen several of her kinsmen and a few others he didn’t recognise.
When he entered the bathhouse, the heat struck him instantly. Steam rose up within the air from heated stones set inside basins of water. Wooden benches were placed at intervals, along with several drying cloths.
Alarr stripped off his clothing and saw that three of his brothers were waiting. His youngest brother Sandulf was there, along with his older brother, Brandt, and their half-brother Rurik, Danr’s twin. Unlike Danr, Rurik was dark-haired and quiet. In many ways, Alarr found it easier to talk with Rurik. They trained together often, and he considered the man a close friend, as well as a brother. Their youngest brother, Sandulf, had a thirst to prove himself. He had dark-blond hair and blue eyes and had nearly put adolescence behind him. Even so, Alarr didn’t like the thought of his brother fighting in battle. Sandulf lacked the reflexes, though he’d trained hard. He feared that only experience would help the young man gain the knowledge he needed now.
‘Whose sword did you choose?’ Sandulf asked.
‘Hafr’s,’ Alarr answered. At his answer, Rurik met his gaze and gave a silent nod of approval. His brother had also been close to Hafr, since Sigurd had distanced himself from his bastard sons.
Alarr strode towards the wooden trough containing heated water. He began the purification ritual, pouring the warmed water over his body with a wooden bowl and scrubbing off the dirt with soap. As he did, Brandt remarked in a low voice, ‘There are many strangers among the guests. Did you notice?’
‘I did,’ Alarr answered. ‘But then, our tribe is well known across the North. It’s not uncommon. And we know that Sigurd wants to make other marriage alliances.’ He sent a pointed look towards Rurik, which his half-brother ignored.
Even so, Brandt looked uneasy. ‘He’s endangering our tribe by bringing in warriors we don’t know. Some were from Éireann.’
The island was several days’ journey across the sea. Sigurd had travelled there, years ago, and had brought back a concubine. She had given birth to Rurik and Danr a few months after her arrival and had never returned home, even after
