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  "Time for what? Do you think Hrolf is going to change his mind? Or do you think we should fight him? What can be gained by insulting the new Count of Rouen?"

  Hakon led a column of hirdmen along the trail, nodding to them as he passed. Gunnar returned it, then put his arm around Aren's shoulder. "Remember your plan, that I would organize a response if things went badly for Father? Well, that is what I am doing. I need time to send word to the other jarls and to await Einar's arrival. Once they learn of Father's fate, they will rise up in his defense and pressure Hrolf to reverse his judgment."

  "Did you not hear that the bishop was a relative of his wife's?" Aren pulled out from beneath Gunnar's arm. "It's worse than pressure from the Church, but his own family relations are part of this problem. He can't excuse Father so readily."

  Gunnar walked off, letting Aren trail him. His brother was correct, as he always was, and the sense of helplessness drowned him. Were they so readily defeated? Was everything he achieved in this life dependent upon the whim of one man? There had to be a way to fight back and not just meekly pack a cart and drift away.

  "This is all that dog-shit Father Lambert's fault. He lied about his leg. I just know it." He stopped, and Aren, who followed behind, bumped into him. "He couldn't have been present for Father's hearing. Hrolf would have seen the priest had both legs and the Church's lies would've been revealed."

  "Men in power make their own truths," Aren said. "It doesn't matter what facts are presented to them."

  "It would have to Hrolf. He can't possibly have wanted Father's downfall. He would've taken any chance to forgive him this accident."

  Aren tucked his head down as was his custom when considering new information. As his brother debated, Gunnar realized what he had to do.

  "I'm going to find Father Lambert and bring him to Hrolf. That will prove he had been deceived."

  "What?" Aren shook his head as if awakening. "There's no deceit in the bishop's corpse. Father killed him. No one can deny it."

  "But the reason for the whole accident was based upon the lies Father Lambert told. Don't you see? It was a trap."

  "I see the trap, but don't see how producing Father Lambert will change Hrolf's mind. If anything, it may anger him more."

  Gunnar left Aren to his worries, knowing his solution was the right one. Once Hrolf saw how they had all been deceived, he would throw out his father's sentence. He only had to locate the priest before Hrolf's patience wore out.

  He went to his mother, gently touching her arm so as not to shock her. She lifted glittering dark eyes to his. "You have that mischievous look. Please don't do anything to get your father killed."

  "Nothing of the sort. I have the answer to our problems. Don't worry, Mother, I will have Father freed and our name restored."

  Runa gave a feeble smile. For the first time in years he noticed how old his mother seemed. The lines between her brows were deep, and more gray than brown spiraled through the tight curls of her hair. "Don't risk too much. I am happy just to have my family back."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Aren was not used to having to take charge. Yet as he sat in the hall, a horn of mead clasped in both hands, Hakon and Finn both staring at him expectantly, he found himself with no other choice. His mother had gone to lie down, claiming the news had exhausted her. The hall was empty of even servants. No one was to know his father's fate, not yet, so words echoed like they were plotting in an underground cave. Only three conspirators gathered at the table, with Aren at the middle. Oil lamps lent an unearthly glow and fetid taint to the hall.

  "So Gunnar doesn't even know where he's searching?" Hakon asked the same question for the third time. His brother, Hakon, was a brave but simple man, and Aren loved him for it. Yet now it grated on him.

  "He couldn't be persuaded to change his mind," Aren said. "And Mother was too shocked to try. She's the only one he'll listen to."

  "His wife, Morgan?" Finn asked.

  "Of no account," Aren waved his had dismissively. "Gunnar has gone to do what he thinks is right. We have to work around that."

  "That's always been his way," Hakon mumbled. "Gets a fire in his belly and flies off in whatever direction he's facing. Last time Father disappeared he was gone for five years."

  Aren drank the mead to buy a pause in the discussion. He savored the sweet taste of it, but a hint of bitterness lay beneath. It was an apt comparison to their recent life. After the peace and the handing out of rewards all was sweet, but underneath that was the bitter taste of jealousy and betrayal. Why no one else recognized the hidden rancor was a mystery to Aren. He and Vilhjalmer seemed the only two people aware of the anger lurking in the hearts of men. Aren had seen men stare greedily at his father's success, and Vilhjalmer heard the grumblings of those who thought they deserved more. Yet neither of their fathers had deigned to hear of it. Perhaps as men aged they ignored troubles rather than face them. Yet now their self-inflicted blindness trapped them, and Aren had to seek a way out for his own father.

  "What are we going to do?" Finn asked. He had been an innocent, freckle-faced boy when his father had met him, but Aren only knew him as a cunning woodsman and hunter. He respected Finn for his loyalty and even-handedness, both of which were needed now.

  "I fear Gunnar may bring us more trouble. Kidnapping a priest can go wrong in so many ways." Aren sighed, dreading to state what everyone had understood. "And if anyone is hurt during it, Hrolf could take it as an excuse to execute Father."

  Finn shook his head. "I just can't see Hrolf doing that to Ulfrik. He was in tears when they reunited. How could he want him dead now?"

  "It's the Church," Hakon said. "And his wife. I guess the bishop was her cousin."

  "The fact remains that Father is now a hostage and we are all outlaws." Aren set his drinking horn aside, the dregs flowing over the table. "We have to consider securing our wealth before Hrolf or the Church decides to claim it. We also must spread the word of Father's captivity. At the least it will prevent further aggression toward us. Right now the Church has a free hand to work in secrecy, but a spot of light upon them will bring modesty."

  "So we hope," Finn said. "They seem to do as they please no matter who is watching."

  "All men have limits, and we will find the Church's," Aren said. "Einar should arrive at any time, unless he has been intercepted. That is very likely given Magnus's arrival today."

  "But his father's body is here?" Hakon said. Aren blinked at him until Hakon lowered his head in shame. "Of course, they won't care about that."

  "Now we have to plan on Gunnar's actions to worsen matters."

  "It's an ill thing to assume disaster," Hakon said. "But Gunnar has a history of rash action."

  "So that means Father will be in greater peril," Aren said. Both Finn and Hakon were staring intently at him, and for the first time he felt truly like a leader. They expected a plan from him, one based on reason. "He must be safeguarded against whatever might come. Contacting the other jarls favorable to our side will help, but take too much time. We possess no way to help Father directly."

  Both Finn and Hakon slumped in defeat and stared at the floor. He had not provided what they had hoped, yet his mind churned over the options. They sat in silence while he dredged his thoughts, and when the plan emerged from the muck of his confusion, he shot up straight on his seat.

  "Of course! I'm such a fool," he said. Hakon and Finn looked up, smiling. "I will go to Vilhjalmer. He is not yet in his full power, but he has sway with men who expect him to succeed his father. He loves Father like an uncle, and thinks him a hero worthy of a saga. If anyone could appeal on his behalf, Vilhjalmer is that man."

  Finn fell back laughing. "A brilliant idea!"

  Hakon frowned and folded his hands on his lap. "How are you going to contact him? You're an outlaw, remember?"

  "I'm also just one young man. Hrolf and his lackeys are watching for armies of men, not a lone traveler."

  "You can't go alone," Hakon said flatly. "E
ven in times of peace that's dangerous, never mind after today."

  "I will take a small escort. You pick the men. I know how to find Vilhjalmer, trust me. We both had ways of escaping his mother and teachers when we wanted time for mischief."

  "You and mischief?" Hakon raised an eyebrow. "Did it involve women? Do you even know what to do with one?"

  "This is no time for jest," Aren said airily. "I'll enlist Vilhjalmer's aid. He might not even be aware of what is happening. Finn, you are a like a forest spirit when you set your mind to it. You should discover what happened to Einar, and give him our news. Make sure he can ride to our aid, and that he spreads the word. Ull the Strong is still his neighbor, and has ever been a supporter of our father. Those two alone can make trouble for Hrolf."

  "And my role?" Hakon asked. "Shall I work the loom or spin wool like an old crone while you have your adventure?"

  "News is going to reach our men sooner or later. You have their respect, so you will organize them. Start with the most loyal, so you have backup if others choose to revolt. You must be our jarl, Hakon. There can be no other."

  "I'm delighted you elected me to the role," Hakon said, then stood. He reached across the table and mussed Aren's hair like he used to when they were children. "You are king-maker now, but I'll be rolled in horse dung if your plan doesn't work. Refill your horn and let's drink to its success."

  Finn snatched the horn then refilled it. He thrust it into Aren's hands and slipped his arm about his neck. They all raised their drinks and Hakon made the toast.

  "To the safe return of our father!"

  When they had guzzled the mead and set their horns upon the board, they all laughed. Aren, though, could not stop thinking how much of their plan relied upon good luck. He prayed the gods they still had it left to them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Gunnar arrived on the Seine with thirty of his own hirdmen, and stared across the cloudy water to the opposite shore. A ferry rowed toward them, halfway across the expanse. His own ship was moored to his father's dock where three other ships sat patiently waiting for their owners to take them to sea. Gunnar recalled a time when the open sea had been his only home. Seeing those masts all grouped together brought back memories of fleets taking to open water to find adventure and plunder.

  "I've spoke with the guards," Bekan said, approaching from the docks. The high afternoon sun filled the sockets beneath his heavy brow with shadow. "Magnus's men passed both coming and going, but did not cause trouble. They left the ships alone."

  "You might think they wanted us to do this," Gunnar said with a smile. "We can't land across the river where Hrolf's men could see us, but will have to sail upriver to cross."

  Bekan scratched at the jagged white scar in his brow. "As long as we're still priest-hunting."

  "That we are, old friend."

  They sailed toward Paris. River traffic had increased now that Hrolf had pledged himself to Charles the Simple. A single longship was no longer a threat to anyone, and so they rowed against the current to a landing on the northern tip of Hrolf's lands. Beaching the ship, Gunnar left ten men to guard it and took the others inland. They followed the banks back west before cutting inland where sentries on the river might spot them.

  "Do you know where this village is?" Bekan asked.

  "I've an idea," Gunnar said. In truth he had a vague notion of its position. He had beaten one of the men who still lingered around Hrothgar's farm for the location of Father Lambert's church. At the time the directions seemed easy enough. Gunnar had been so filled with hate for this man, blaming him for all that had happened, that he split the man's head open with his ax. Now he wished he had taken him along as a guide.

  They entered a light wood for cover against discovery by travelers or sentries. They stumbled through this wood and it grew thicker, not lighter as he had expected. The trail he had hoped to pick up had not revealed itself, and they had to double back to try once more. At last they did come to a path and followed it until a farmhouse appeared above a rise ahead. Gunnar smiled and pointed, as if to assure himself he had not gotten them lost.

  "This must be the place," he said.

  "Wasn't there supposed to be a giant elm by the farm?" Bekan asked.

  "Maybe they cut it down," Gunnar said. His heart began pounding, realizing he might have followed the wrong path. The land was crisscrossed with them, worn into the dirt by villagers traveling to different towns. Nothing was laid out in any plan, and picking the wrong path was not uncommon.

  "Let's send someone ahead to discover who's up there," Gunnar said. "If this is not the right village, we must learn where we are."

  They retreated down the path until the farmhouse disappeared, then two men headed up the trail. No one spoke while the men were gone, as if speaking might cause them to become lost. Gunnar paced, holding his stump arm behind his back. While he paced, he noticed a shape atop the hill. He stared at it, not sure of what he was seeing.

  Then the form burst into a run, and fled over the horizon.

  "Shit! We've been seen." Gunnar pointed at the crest, as did another of his men.

  "Should we run?" Bekan asked, and the men all turned to him.

  His temple throbbed. If they had to retreat in failure, with Father Lambert just over that rise, he would never forgive himself. His father's freedom depended upon this decision. "Are we women to run from shadows? Do you think our swords and mail are not good enough to face a farmer's rake?"

  The men laughed and shook their heads. Gunnar pulled the ax from his belt loop and pointed ahead, and with a roar led them up the track.

  They piled over the ridge, where he stopped to examine the landscape. His eyes settled on a large elm tree and his body flooded with relief. His two men were chasing someone into a barn. He had no time to see who they pursued, but the door slammed on them and they began to kick. Gunnar called out for them to stop.

  "It's the church we want to find," he said as he joined the rest of his men to the two he had sent ahead. "What did you learn?"

  "Only that these are suspicious folk," said one of the men.

  Gunnar scanned the rest of the farms, and saw people running out of the fields or fleeing the area. He had no way to contain all of them, but he did spot the stone building he had hoped to find.

  The church was a small and simple structure, the only stone building in the entire village. The steeply pitched roof had been newly thatched, and Gunnar imagined it burning. Around the church were neatly trimmed shrubs and a small grove of trees behind it. People were fleeing to it now, as they always did when raiders came. He remembered his raids fondly as well.

  "Let's go see if Father Lambert has both of his legs," he said.

  They marched directly toward the church which seemed to huddle in fear in the open field. Gunnar sent his younger, faster men to sprint around the rear and cut off anyone trying to flee that way. The main force hit the front door, a heavy wooden affair with iron bindings. He tried it, and it was barred as expected.

  "Looks like we're not welcome," Gunnar said, stepping back. "And I thought they wanted to make us Christians."

  His men laughed and he gestured at Vigfus, one of his strongest men, to take his two-handed ax to the door. The wide-shouldered man hefted the ax overhead and slammed it into the door. Muted screams followed the thud of the ax head biting into the wood.

  "We're getting inside no matter what you want," Gunnar called through the door while Vigfus pried out his ax. "So why anger me like this? Just open up. We only want to talk to your priest."

  He shared a wry smile with Bekan, but when no one answered he had Vigfus continue to chop the door. By the time it splintered open, Vigfus was streaming with sweat. "Must be a pile of gold in there to have a door like this," Vigfus said as he used his ax to widen the hole he had broken.

  "All churches are filled with spoils," Gunnar said. "After we take the priest, we'll help ourselves to some of his riches. I'm sure he won't miss it."

  Having clea
red a hole large enough to see through, Vigfus stuck a section of splintered door through the opening. It was an old trick used against desperate villagers. They might be hidden against the side of the door with a blade to stick into the first arm through the opening. Their fright normally caused them to strike at the first thing through the hole. When nothing struck Vigfus's decoy, he put his arm through and pulled up the bar. It clunked to the floor and more women screamed inside the church.

  "I hate screaming women," Gunnar said. "Reminds me of my wife. Always screaming about something."

  Bekan chuckled. "Morgan's a steady woman. I think it's you who does all the screaming."

  "I've got two daughters. Between them and my wife there's enough screeching in my life."

  The door burst open and the screams hit him with full force. Vigfus stepped aside to allow Gunnar the opportunity to enter first, which he did with his ax ready. He confronted a single man with a dull iron sword so tarnished he did not think the weapon had been used since Charlemagne ruled. Behind him were two other men with wooden rakes held like spears. Clustered against the altar were all women and children, their dirty faces white with fear. The tiny church might fit twenty people with comfort, but now it was crammed with bodies. The place smelled like sweat and manure with the rotten odor of tallow candles.

  "Where's all the gold?" Bekan asked as he stood to Gunnar's left. "A Church without gold is like a woman without tits."

  "Like a woman, they won't show it without no one," Vigfus said, standing to Gunnar's right.

  "All right, boys," Gunnar said. "We'll get to the spoils in a moment."

  Despite the banter, Gunnar's head throbbed. He did not see Father Lambert. He did not even see a priest. A throng of filthy, scared farmers was no help to him, and without Father Lambert for evidence, Ulfrik would be doomed. He leveled his ax at the man holding the sword.