That afternoon, Hakon rose from his bed in Sigurd"s guest hall, having napped only briefly. He washed his face in the water bucket a t****l had left by the door, then dressed himself for the duel: thick leather pants and boots, greaves, shining new byrnie, helm, and shield. Finally he girded himself with the beautiful sword Athelstan had given him.
Even so armed, Hakon felt as bare and unprotected as a newborn. The thought softened his insides and moistened his palms, and he reconsidered Sigurd"s offer to find someone to fight in his stead. The words appealed far more now than they had the night before. Yet he could not. If he did not fight, he would lose any hope of gaining the respect of Sigurd and his men.
He steeled himself against his fear and walked outside, past the dueling ground
