Viking's Dawn by Henry Treece

Author:Henry Treece
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Vikings, Fiction
Published: 1956-06-01T00:00:00+00:00

10

After the Feast

After the feasting, Harald lay in the dark of the long pine hall, wide awake. He could not get off to sleep partly because of the excitements of the day, partly because of the groaning wounded who lay near the fire in the centre of the hall; but perhaps most of all because of the memories of the feast that had only just ended, memories which flooded in a great noisy tumult through his head.

Once again he heard the wild music of harp and flute that had filled the hall; he saw the dancers, skipping like elves above the crossed swords, their fierce faces lit with an ecstasy he had never observed on a man’s face before. He saw in his mind’s eye the long trestle table, with its torches set along it and the meat and drink scattered here and there in profusion. And at the head of the table, the old chief, Dubghal and his son, Feinn, with bright Thorkell between them, all of them laughing and singing as though they had known each other always. The boy recalled how, at a certain point in the feasting, Feinn had taken out his razor-keen hunting knife and had nicked Thorkell’s wrist and his own and had placed them together so that their blood mingled.

Then the Vikings and the Picts had roared with approval and had slapped each other so hard on the back that at least three fights started – and finished just as quickly when the old chieftain glared down the hall.

And he recalled poor Hasting and Ivar, propped up against the wall, their faces ashen pale, the food beside them untouched, their weak hands letting drop the wine horns that their comrades offered to them. Ivar had stared blindly towards the table, now without power of speech; Hasting had tried once or twice to speak to Aun, but could not make his voice heard above the general flurry of sound in the hall.

These things had impressed Harald deeply; but perhaps even more disturbing was his memory of Ragnar, seated down the table from his friend, brooding darkly and never saying a word to anyone, hacking savagely at the meat which was placed before him and drinking constantly of the strong heather-honey ale of which only the Picts held the secret. At first, they had all watched Ragnar anxiously, since they were afraid that he might start a quarrel out of jealousy. Yet as the evening wore on, and nothing untoward had happened, they had forgotten him.

Once Thorkell had looked round the table and had asked for Wolf, but no man had seen Wolf that night. Someone said that he had volunteered to stay with the Nameless, and that had satisfied Thorkell. The old chief, Dubghal had said wryly, ‘That Wolf is one of our folk, I think. I should like to speak with him.’

The young chief had said quickly, ‘He has lived with the Northmen almost all his life, father. You cannot call on him.’

Harald

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