"Remind me again," Old Halvor Homme whispered loudly to his grandson. "Whose wedding feast is this?"

"Bjørgulv Såmundsson of Dalen just married Ingebjørg, the only child of Haughty Halvor Huvestad," Jon said. "That's where we are now, in the Huvestad barn."

Old Halvor waved his hand. "I know where we are. Been here countless times. Just can't remember who's growing up and starting new families."

Fifteen-year-old Jon grinned. "What's my name, Farfar?"

"Probably Halvor, like me. Far too many Halvors running around for my liking, and half of 'em my own grandsons."

"Wrong."

Old Halvor socked his grandson's shoulder. "I'd really be a doddering old fool if I didn't know my own Jon the Wisemouth."

"Leave off the 'mouth' part and I'll be happy with the name."

"Go fetch me a platter and a mug. Can't dance, so I may as well feast."

Jon skirted the dancers, barely sidestepping in time when his cousin Sigrid Sørensdotter of Breidalen came whirling past on the arm of Longlegs Halvor Aslaksson of Åe, brother of Tall Såmund. Beyond that couple lumbered Haughty Halvor himself, the father of the bride. Was that Halvor the Silent from Brekke, next in line? And he knew his own big brother Halvor Lamefoot was here somewhere. Too many Halvors, indeed.

A great bowl of barley porridge sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by pitchers of cream and bricks of butter. The mother of the bride guarded a small plate of wedding kling, and shook her head when Jon gave her a questioning look.

"It's for my farfar, Old Halvor," he explained.

"And this is for the bride and groom. If they can't have wheat-bread for their honeymoon, they'll at least get the first slice of kling at their wedding feast. Must I put it under lock and key?"

"I'll come back later." Jon took his grandfather a bowl of mush and a mug of weak ale.

"That's all you can find?" the old man asked, and snorted. "Your farmor, now, she'd dump this mush and go hungry, if that's all the more fare they offered."

Jon's voice turned sober. "You know how bad the harvest has been, three years in a row."

Old Halvor patted Jon's shoulder. "Wasn't complaining. Glad to have a full stomach most days. Just thinking about your farmor. She had such a dislike for barley mush. Did you know I had to promise her oats and rye before she'd marry me?"

"May I sit here?" Gunnhild of Dalen asked, plopping down on a haybale beside the two. "Ooh, Jon, why do they call your brother Lamefoot? He prances like a goat on a hot stove!"

"He limped a year and a day after a horse stepped on his foot."

"We were just talking about my Liv," Old Halvor said. "Do you remember, Gunnhild, back when you called her 'Mormor'?"

"Ja, I do."

"Thirty-seven grandchildren, she had. Twenty-one still walking this earth."

"Twenty-one?" Gunnhild hummed. "Amazing!"

"No wonder the dales are so chockful of people there isn't enough land to go around," Jon said. "We'll blame it on you and Mormor."

"Good thing I hear that grin in your voice," Old Halvor growled. "You know how they handled over-population in the old days? Sent the second and third sons off a-viking. If they came back with loot, well, fine and good. They could pay for their upkeep. If they fell in battle far from home--" He shrugged. "Problem solved."

"Jon, you're a second son, aren't you?" Gunnhild said. "Going a-viking soon?"

"Either that or blow up Homme's Crest to get more sunlight on our fields."

"Some of the nordmenn," Old Halvor went on, "didn't come back because they settled elsewhere. England. Scotland. Ireland. Normandy."

"I don't think Europe would look favorably," Gunnhild said wryly, "on a new wave of Viking invaders. Where should we send Jon if we need to get rid of him?"

"Hey," Jon protested. "There are too many women in the dales, too."

"Ja, but I'm a firstborn daughter," Gunnhild said. "I'll probably marry a firstborn son who inherits all his father's land."

"So why aren't you married yet?"

"I'm only twenty-five. No hurry."

"My Liv was ten years older than me," Old Halvor said. "We wed when she was thirty-three, and I was twenty-three. Hmm... In eight years, you two will be right where we were."

Jon and Gunnhild sprang up and left in opposite directions.

.

BEHIND THE SCENES

"i viking" is the Norwegian phrase for "on an expedition," or "on a raiding voyage." It really isn't a verb form, the way it's rendered above in English.

"Nordmann" means "north man": a Norwegian. The "d" in "nord" is silent, so when a prominent Viking negotiated land in France where he could settle with his followers, the French heard him refer to himself as a "Normann." Thus came the name of Normandy.

I'm belated in posting this chart , but you can see several Halvors...