But Algot objected. Allowing someone to ride off into the night would be ill mannered to those who came with such excellent meat. Besides, he quickly realized that it might seem quite providential to introduce Katarina to a son of Arnäs in this Godgiven way, even though Arn was the poorer of the two. It might make her prefer the eldest son.
And so a little feast was now arranged at Husaby just before All Saints' Day, when winter was near. After the horses were unsaddled and settled in their stalls, the meat was taken off to be flayed and prepared by Husaby's spit-turners, and Arn's thrall companions sent off to the thrall house. Then Katarina came to her father and suggested with an innocent expression that they shouldn't let the guest sleep in the longhouse with all the others, for at Arnäs they had more refined customs. Instead she would arrange it so that Arn had his own bed in one of the guesthouses which they were just about to close up for the winter. Algot merely grunted curt approval of this arrangement without either understanding or wanting to understand what sort of intentions Katarina might have.
Arn felt great embarrassment because he had never been anyone's guest before, and he wasn't sure how to act. He knew enough from Arnäs that it was considered an insult if one ate and drank too little. So as he unsaddled and curried Shimal he decided with a deep sigh to try to eat and drink like a pig so that his father would not be ashamed of how he behaved away from Arnäs. Fortunately, they'd had no food for many hours, so he had no lack of hunger, at least.
He went out to wash himself at the spring in the courtyard, where he saw that thralls had gathered. He realized as soon as he started washing that he was not behaving as a guest should. The thralls, startled and snickering, moved away as they pointed at him behind his back. But he wasn't about to give up this habit of washing, he thought. For even though he had to eat like a pig he didn't want to smell like one.
He lay down to rest for a while on the low wooden bed they had assigned to him and stared up at the ceiling, where he pictured clear images of deer and wild boar in the flickering of the candle flame. He was glad that he had accomplished something that his father was bound to appreciate more than his masonry work. With this consoling thought and with the wild animals before his eyes he fell asleep.
When a house thrall came and cautiously woke him it was pitch-dark; several hours must have passed since he went to sleep. In shock he jumped up at once, worried that it might seem as if he was declining his host's invitation, which would not likely be taken well. But the house thrall calmed him and said that the feast was just now starting, and all he had to do was come along. It had taken a good long time to roast the meat.
When Arn stepped into the dark hall at Husaby he felt himself transported back to ancient times. The long dark room was supported by two rows of carved pillars; Arn guessed that the roof was heavy with turf and earth and needed this support. Along the roof ridge were three smoke vents with lids over them, but he still felt some scattered raindrops on his face as he walked past the long log fire placed in the middle of the hall. The square pillars were decorated on all sides up to the height of a man with red patterns of winding dragons and mythological beasts. Similar patterns were visible around the high seat and the sleeping places in the corners at the end of the hall. This seemed to Arn a heathen, dismal, and cold abode.
He discovered that Algot and his daughter Katarina had dressed in feast clothes, as had the four men sitting around the high seat who were strangers to him. This made him uneasy, since he was wearing hunting garb of rough wool and deerskin. But he wouldn't have been able to do much about that. And now they all looked at him as if they expected him to do something. He greeted them with God's peace and bowed to them all, first to the lord and his daughter Katarina. He saw that she smiled a bit scornfully at him and surmised that he probably should have done and said something more.
But Algot Pålsson found no reason to plunge his important but awkward guest into more embarrassment. He stepped down from the high seat at once and took Arn by the arm to offer him the chair at his right hand, which was the place of honor. Then he called for the huge drinking horn, which according to tradition had been at Husaby since the time of Olof Skötkonung, the first Swedish king to be baptized, in 1008, in the spring at Husaby. Algot solemnly handed the horn to Arn and thereby the feast commenced.
Arn couldn't help studying the drinking horn for a moment before he raised it to his lips. At first he didn't think about how heavy it was, instead noticing all the heathen images that adorned it. The Christian cross seemed to have been added much later, as if to gloss over the sin. Realizing that he was no doubt expected to swill down the ale like an animal, he took a deep breath and then did his best to drink until he choked, with the others watching him intently. Panting, he set down the horn, but more than a third of the ale remained. Algot took the horn from him and quickly emptied it out onto the floor. Then he turned the horn upside down, and the others pounded on the table with their palms as a sign that the guest had honored their house by drinking it to the bottom. Arn already sensed that this supper was not something he would remember with pleasure.
Then the roast meat and more ale in huge tankards were brought in and served to everyone. The meat proved to be a deer roasted on a spit and a young pig roasted the same way. As Arn expected, the venison tasted tough and dry and unspiced except for salt, which had been liberally applied. They had roasted an animal that had been alive that very morning, something that Brother Rugiero would have viewed as a sin almost as serious as blasphemy. Arn vowed not to betray his thoughts or complain about anything, so he praised the excellent meat, drank eagerly of his ale, and smacked his lips in contentment, because that was what people did. Yet he had a hard time finding anything to say, and Algot had to help him along by asking about the hunt. Any man given the chance to brag about his hunt would become as voluble as a bard, even if he was otherwise taciturn.
But Arn didn't know what to do when offered an opportunity to boast, and he replied briefly, instead praising his thralls as skilled hunters. This was not received well by the host and hostess. So at the beginning of the feast the conversation dragged along reluctantly, like a forest slug on a dry path. At last Algot asked whether Arn himself had shot any of the animals, which was a wickedly bold question even though the guest could always exaggerate without anyone thinking ill of him. Arn replied in a low voice and looking down at the table that he had shot six of the deer and seven of the boars, but he was quick to add that his thralls had shot almost as many. Silence fell over the table, and Arn didn't understand that no one believed him. They were all now thinking that he certainly was allowed to brag a little, but not so much that it was obvious he had told a bald-faced lie.
A young man whose kinship with Algot had not been made clear to Arn now asked with a sneer whether Arn may have missed a shot or two, or if he'd had such luck that he felled all the animals with the first shot. Arn, who didn't see the trap in this question, replied honestly that he had killed all the animals with the first shot. But then the young man laughed derisively and asked to be allowed to raise his goblet in respect for such a great archer. Arn drank the toast in all seriousness, but his cheeks burned when he saw scorn and mockery in the other man's eyes. He was well aware that he hadn't answered the questions he was asked wisely. But he had merely spoken the truth; why would it have been wiser to tell a lie? That question bore thinking about, for just now he almost wished he had been able to tell some clever lie and evade the disdain and contempt he saw all around him.