Then he passed the cow horn with a slow and ceremonious gesture to Sir Arn, who now, seemingly embarrassed, accepted the horn and said something that made everyone in the hall who understood Norse burst into laughter. Then he tried to swallow the entire contents of the horn but he was obviously cheating, since most of the ale ran down his surcoat. When he took the horn from his mouth he pretended to stagger and supported himself on the edge of the table as with a shaking hand he passed the drinking horn back to his brother. For this prank he was met by thundering salvos of laughter from the Nordic warriors at the table.

The ceremony was still not over, since nobody made a move to start eating. Once again a servant filled the drinking horn and handed it to Sir Arn’s brother, who raised it above his head, saying something that was no doubt noble and pithy, since it was met by an approving murmur. Then he gulped down all the ale without spilling a drop, as easily as a drunkard gulps down a glass of wine. The jubilation in the hall rose anew, and all the men with ale mugs in front of them raised them high, uttered a blessing, and began drinking like brutes. Harald Øysteinsson was the first to thump down his wooden tankard on the table. He stood up and made a short speech in a singing, rhythmic manner that met with great approval.

Sir Arn poured wine for those he wanted to save from the horrors of ale, as he said not entirely in jest, and translated for the wine drinkers what his friend Harald had said in verse. In Frankish it became something like:

Seldom smacked spuming ale so well as to the warrior who has lacked it long.

Long was the journey.

Longer was the wait.

Now shall we drink with kinsmen no worse than Thor.

Sir Arn explained that Thor was a god who, according to the sagas, began drinking up the whole ocean when he wanted to impress the giants. Unfortunately, this was only the first of many declaimed verses, and Sir Arn did not think he could translate all of them, since it grew harder both to hear and to understand what was said.

More ale was brought in by young women scampering lightly on bare feet, and the platters of meat, fish, bread, and vegetables were piled up like an enemy army on the huge longtable. The Wachtian brothers each fell at once upon a suckling pig, the big monk and the seaman Tanguy took pieces from one of the steaming salmon that were carried in on planks. The English archers loaded up huge pieces of calf shank, while Sir Arn took a modest piece of salmon. With his long sharp dagger he also sliced a chunk out of the cheek of one of the pig heads that was suddenly plopped down before the eyes of the Wachtian brothers.

At first they both stared at the pig head in horror; it was pointing its snout straight at them. Jacob shrank back involuntarily, but Marcus leaned forward on his elbows and began to converse with the pig, so that everyone nearby who understood Frankish was soon convulsed in laughter.

He said that he presumed Sir Swine belonged in this country, not in Outremer, which seemed hardly conceivable. But it was in truth better to end up with Armenian brothers than it would have been out in the tents, where the danger was great that Sir Swine would not have been met with the greatest courtesy.

At the thought of what would have happened if this pig head had been borne out to the Muslims, Marcus and Jacob doubled over laughing. Soon the Frankish speakers laughed all the harder when the call to prayer was heard coming from the direction of the tents, since the sun went down very late in this strange land. Sir Arn also smiled a bit at the thought of a pig head being served in the midst of the Muslim evening prayers, but he simply gave a dismissive wave of the hand when his brother asked what was so funny.

‘God is grea-ea-eat,’ snorted Marcus in Arabic and raised his wine glass to Sir Arn, but a new fit of laughter caught in his throat and he spurted wine all over his host, who calmly poured him some more.

It was not long before Sir Arn and the woman next to him carefully pushed away their plates, wiped off their daggers, and stuck them in their belts. Sir Arn’s brother ate a couple of more huge pieces of meat before he did the same. Then all three in the high seat devoted themselves to drinking; two of them did so quietly while the third drank like the warriors, the Norwegian, and the two English archers John Strongbow and Athelsten Crossbow, who both showed they could drink ale at the same pace as the barbarians.

The clamour rose higher and higher. The Englishmen and the Norwegian were not too proud to move from their places to join the Nordic warriors, and there a mighty battle of honour commenced, to see who could empty an entire tankard of ale the fastest without removing it from his lips. It appeared that the Norwegian and the Englishmen acquitted themselves well in this Nordic contest. Arn leaned over to his four remaining Frankish-speaking guests and explained that it was good for their honour that at least some of the men from Outremer could do well in this strange competition. As he explained, Nordic men esteemed the ability to drink themselves rapidly senseless almost as much as the ability to handle sword and shield. Why this was so, he could not explain, but merely shrugged his shoulders as if at some mystery that was impossible to comprehend.

When the first man tumbled to the floor, vomiting, the hostess got up with a smile and without exaggerated haste. She took her leave of Sir Arn, whom she kissed on the forehead to his obvious embarrassment, and that of his brother and the Frankish-speaking guests, who by this time were the only ones except for the host and hostess who were in any condition to reply when spoken to.

Sir Arn then poured more wine for the Frankish speakers and explained that they had to remain seated for a while longer, so that it could not be said that those who drank wine had been drunk under the table by those who drank ale. However, after a glance down the longtable he opined that it would all be over within an hour, about the time that the first morning light appeared outside.

As the sun rose over Arnäs and the redwing fell silent, Arn stood alone up in the high tower, daydreaming about the landscape of his childhood. He recalled how he had hunted deer and boar up on Kinnekulle with thralls whose names he now had difficulty remembering. He thought about how he had come riding on a noble stallion named Shimal from Outremer, though the steed was never as close to him as was Khamsiin, and how his father and brother had laughed at the wretched horse that in their eyes was good for nothing.

But most of all he daydreamed about Cecilia. He recalled how the two of them had ridden up Kinnekulle one spring; she had worn a green cloak. It was on that occasion that he intended to declare his love but found himself unable to say anything before Our Lady sent him orders out of the Song of Songs, the words that he had carried in his memory during all the years of war.

Our Lady had in truth listened to his prayers and had taken mercy on his faithfulness; he had never lost hope. Now there was less than a week left of this longing. In two days’ time he would set off on the journey to Näs, where Cecilia might already have arrived, although without knowing he was so near.

He shuddered as if in terror at the thought. His waking dream seemed to have grown too immense, as if he no longer could control it.

Down below him the courtyard was quiet and almost entirely deserted. A few house thralls went about mucking away the vomit. With fir branches they swept up the piss down by the door of the longhouse. Some men came out, puffing and swearing, as they dragged a limp guard whom they would have thought dead but for the fact that he had attended a good feast at Arnäs.