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  "That is a fair exchange. Let it be witnessed here, by my old gods and the new god, that I swear to be your loyal bondsman and protect your rule in exchange for the land and title promised me."

  The oath hit Ulfrik like a punch. Such plain-spoken words, yet they forged the start of a new rule in Frankia. No more were any of them invaders, but now Franks themselves--at least in name. The thought made him numb.

  The false smile returned to King Charles's thin lips. He stood straighter and his eyes glinted in triumph. The priest who had lingered behind his monarch now came forward and addressed Hrolf.

  "Oaths are not enough to secure this treaty. You must perform an act of homage and fealty to consecrate it."

  "An oath is all I need make. A man who breaks his oath is no man at all. What is this act?"

  "You must kiss the foot of your king."

  "No. As I swore the day I took up my sword, I will never kneel before another man, nor kiss anyone's foot."

  "It must be done," the priest insisted. King Charles placed his foot forward in the grass.

  "Let a man who represents me do this," Hrolf said. "It is enough respect that the best and longest serving of my men kiss your foot."

  Gunther One-Eye stirred beside Ulfrik, and Mord whispered to his father, "You can still see enough to manage it without me."

  Then Hrolf called out his choice, "Ulfrik, perform this act in my name."

  The choice surprised Ulfrik, and he felt his face warm as Gunther quietly stepped back. To hesitate would bring shame to Hrolf, so Ulfrik stepped up to King Charles and knelt before him.

  The king wore soft shoes of leather that appeared as if he had never worn them before this occasion. Ulfrik stared at the foot, and the priest urged him to perform the rite. "Kiss the king's foot as a sign of homage. What are you waiting for?"

  Ulfrik reached down and carefully lifted the king's foot from the grass. As he hunched forwards, lips pursed, he felt his stomach clenching in revulsion and anger. Is this what these Franks demand of their warriors, he thought. To see how willing their best men are to debase themselves to prove their loyalty? As he held the king's foot, he decided how he would demonstrate his loyalty.

  He lifted the foot, brushed his lips against it, then continued to raise it.

  King Charles the Simple lost his balance as Ulfrik raised the foot past his head and sent the king sprawling into the grass. Hrolf and all his hirdmen burst into raucous laughter. Ulfrik stood over the king, his crown askew on his head and eyes wide in disbelief. The Franks gasped and men surged forward to aid their king. Ulfrik returned to his own, offering the fallen monarch a shallow bow.

  Tears of laughter stained Hrolf's cheeks and he grabbed Ulfrik into a bear hug. "You acted for all of us. I could not have done better."

  Men patted his back and congratulated him. He felt the warm glow of satisfaction, and it deepened as King Charles raged at the men helping him to his feet. He glared at Hrolf as he straightened the crown on his head.

  "There is the act of fealty and homage, my king," Hrolf said with a bow. "The treaty is now made good."

  With that, Hrolf became Count of Rouen and the land of Normandy was born.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "The humiliation still burns!"

  Mord flung his drinking horn into the hearth, the ale hissing into steam as it spilled on the fire. His hall had emptied of men, leaving only a Frankish slave cowering in the darkness of the corners. The old man fetched Mord's horn out of the flames before it was ruined, but Mord's eyes saw only Hrolf and Ulfrik laughing together after he had toppled the king to the grass. Though it had been more than a week gone, he still thought of nothing else.

  The hall doors were closed against the balmy night breeze, but moonlight slipped in through the smoke hole in the roof. Mord's mouth tasted of a too-salty meal that he had cursed his wife for ruining. The night was truly a waste but for the ale.

  "Bring me another horn," he yelled at the old slave, who was already refilling it from a clay pitcher.

  "Stop acting like a drunk. You're better than that." His father, Gunther One-Eye, sat along a bench against the wall. His white hair glowed in the low light and his milky eye fixed on Mord. "I'm tired of the constant complaining. You're worse than your wife."

  Mord snatched the horn out of the slave's hand, contemplated ignoring his father's demands, but then handed it back. "Here, don't waste it."

  "You've chased everyone away," Gunther said, his voice a low grumble. "And your woman won't be giving you another chance at children tonight. Not after the way you shamed her before everyone."

  He had not paused to think about his wife, Fara. As usual, his father had mentioned his lack of an heir. His only child, a girl, had died two years after her birth, and Fara had produced no more children.

  "She will recover. Besides, I will have to find another woman to give me sons. Fara obviously is spent of her child-bearing."

  Gunther shrugged. They sat in silence, and Mord listened to the night breeze blowing against the hall. Smoke clung to the ceiling like a white cloud, and not for the first time Mord wished his hall were larger. He stared at his hands, unsure of what else to say. If he could not complain of the shame he endured at the Saint Clair sur Epte, he had nothing more on his mind.

  "Did that spot of silence help clear your thoughts?" Gunther asked.

  "Not really."

  His father's head lowered and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I too felt the shame. More than you. I was Hrolf's oldest serving man, but I suppose I was not his best. A lifetime of faithful service, all forgotten."

  "And you know why."

  "Because I am old and halfway blind and can't do more for him than try to teach his arrogant son how to be a man. I can't deliver grand victories or flip a king on his ass. My usefulness has passed, and I'm set aside to die."

  "All because of Ulfrik!"

  "Ulfrik is an upstart. I found him when he was nothing, a slave. I saw the potential in him, pushed him before Hrolf, and made him great. He went from being a farmer on some bird-shit island at the top of the world to Hrolf's trusted man. He moved me aside without a look back. I knew years ago that he had gotten too big to let him remain on the board. Now look at him. He has replaced me not only in his position today, but even in Hrolf's memories. It's as if I had never lived."

  "I wish Magnus had shot at him first, rather than his son. It would be good to have him dead."

  Gunther shook his head. "Ulfrik is the luckiest man I know. I could have told you an arrow would not find a mark on him. Besides, the time is not right for his sudden death, and to have died that way would have brought Hrolf's suspicions to your hall door. Magnus would have died to keep your secret, but Hrolf would learn the truth. He's good at that."

  Mord bowed his head. "I saw an opportunity, much like you did once."

  Gunther leaned back and laughed. "That was nothing of the sort. I planned for months to put together a scheme that would take Ulfrik off the board. Magnus worked like a bull assembling all the pieces, bringing Throst and Konal together and carefully planning every step of that plan. I had to work on Hrolf myself, so he put the plan in motion without even realizing it. No one ever knew I had sent Ulfrik into his enemy's hands. That's a great deal more thorough than having him shot in front of dozens of loyal hirdmen. What were you even thinking?"

  Mord's fists clenched and his pulse quickened, but he turned his head aside. The slave had shrunk into the darkness again, his narrow head lit only with wavering hearth firelight. Mord squinted at the slave and he slid from the bench and fled to the far corner of the hall.

  "We had five years to do what we needed," Gunther said. "I had cleared the road then you shit all over it. You let that brat of Hrolf's get captured by the Franks. You were to be grooming him, planting seeds of a future friendship, and you almost got him killed."

  "I was letting him have the adventures he desired. It was bad luck that the Franks attacked." Mord knew how lame this excuse was. It was as
weak now as it had been the dozens of other times he had fallen back on it.

  "Oh yes, so you've told me. Luck can be good or bad, but a man can help which way his luck turns. Bad luck was Ulfrik's return. Even worse luck is he recovered as well as he has. Now look at the land he possesses. He's practically a count himself. Hrolf does not see him as a threat to his rule. He still thinks Ulfrik is his luck."

  Gunther stood, then carefully picked his way to Mord's table, keeping his gnarled hand on a table to guide himself. He set his cataract eye on Mord. "That land, those farms and those trade posts, those should be yours. I saw this coming years ago, that Ulfrik would grab the glory and spoils to himself. He would set you aside as he did me. I have served Hrolf all my life, and he has made my old age comfortable. But he has not done well by you. That land is precious, the very heart of Hrolf's fortune. Whoever controls that land controls Hrolf."

  "Then Ulfrik is even more formidable than before."

  "Ulfrik is a monster on the battlefield and a leader of men. But he is simple, much like the Frankish king. He is an honest man, and will keep faith with Hrolf until he dies. He would never challenge Hrolf, and Hrolf knows this. Before he realizes what power he has, or worse yet decides to parcel out the land to his sons, he must be removed. It's no longer just him, but his three children. Gods be cursed, but they are craftier than he is, especially the youngest one. Gunnar would not hesitate to abuse whatever power he grasps. Ulfrik has a den of wolves in those three sons, and all of them must be cleared out. Killing the dominant wolf alone will not destroy that pack."

  Mord's fists clenched tighter. "The the sooner we act, the better."

  His father shook his head. "Have you learned nothing from me? Now is not the time to act, but to watch. Everything has changed. Enemies are now allies and old allies have to decide where they stand. You have been too vocal in your opposition of Ulfrik these years. You must become his friend again, or at least lead Hrolf to believe you have set aside your differences."

  "Would that I could bury an ax in his skull while his back is turned."

  "And if that was the answer, I'd have done it years ago." Gunther felt along the table edge to find a seat beside Mord. "A whole world of revenge would fall upon you. Just think of Einar Snorrason and the way he lops off heads with his ax like a man knocking apples from a tree. Besides, Hrolf would never stand for murder. Ulfrik and his sons must be the cause of their own undoing."

  "And how would that come to be?"

  "I don't know yet. But here is what you must consider. Hrolf has vowed to become a Christian, and that will mean the return of churches. Have you not paid attention to how the Christian priests build their churches? They settle wherever they wish, and take whatever they want. Your dear wife is a great Christian, is she not? So is Hrolf's beloved wife, and she comes from a royal line. How hard will it be to steer the church toward Ulfrik's lands when those lands are already so valuable? Trouble will follow, and we only need to goad both sides to increasing conflict. Hrolf will have to side with the Church in any dispute, and there is the seed of Ulfrik's undoing."

  "As if Ulfrik is fool enough to fight the church." Mord scowled at the vision of Ulfrik in his head, him presiding over his beautiful hall and bountiful lands.

  "Yet one more thing you have not considered. Ulfrik is a warrior. He has built a life of fighting and knows nothing else. He is a master of battle, but is he a master of peace? Give him a year or two of collecting taxes and settling petty arguments and he will be ripe for violence again. Peace will wear on him like rust on a knife, and he will break at the first push. We just watch for the right moment, then provide the push."

  "It's all too vague, Father. What if he deals better than we expect?"

  "Then we adjust our plans." Gunther smiled, his blind eye staring into the distance. "I will see him gone before I leave this world, and see you in his stead. Where you should have been all along."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was after Sumarmál festivities that Gunnar learned Father Lambert was making trouble on his lands. He was standing outside of his hall, hands on hips, watching his son Leif run with the other boys as they played in the grass. The dozen of them were between two to four years old, and now piled upon each other with shouts of glee. Conversely, Gunnar frowned, listening to his hirdman describe the conflict with the priest.

  "So the priest has marked out the foundations of the church he intends to build, and it is in Hrothgar's pasture. The old man is trying to negotiate like you've asked, but the priest says it is the best spot for his church." The hirdman was named Bekan, and was one of the few original men to have sailed with Gunnar. Bekan had a craggy face and heavy brow. A jagged scar ran through his right brow, a horrid white line where a spear had nearly removed his eye. He stared after Leif while standing beside Gunnar, who ground his teeth and flared his nostrils.

  "He's deliberately provoking me. It's not enough that he had to insist we celebrate his Easter over our Sumarmál? Wasn't that one victory enough for him?"

  "Land is worth more than a festival day," Bekan said.

  "And the Christians have a festival day for a thousand of their saints. But it's never enough. They want more, and now they want my land."

  "Hrothgar is old and quick to anger. I think he might pull out his war gear and bring the fight to Father Lambert."

  "I might allow him the chance," Gunnar said.

  The children were again chasing each other in a circle, laughing without a care. A year and half had passed since the treaty of Saint Clair sur Epte has been made. Gunnar surveyed the prosperity he enjoyed since that time. His hall dominated a wide field, and around it were open homes and farms without walls. No longer did they fear Frankish attacks. Half the children running with his son were Franks, and they all spoke the same language. Farmers worked a field in the distance, and faint echoes of the blacksmith's hammering reached them. The parcel of land Ulfrik had cut from his territory and bestowed to him was every bit as rich as he had promised it would be. He and his people enjoyed success undreamed by any of them.

  Gunnar hated it. Certainly his wife, Morgan, loved the stability and the station of being a jarl's wife. All loved the taxes he collected and the wealth he now possessed. Peace brought trade and good harvests. Yet his belly grew softer by the day and his ships patrolled the Seine to encounter nothing more than boats of adventurous Danes who poked up from the south once a year to test the resistance of their new enemies. He had never expected his days of warfare would end so soon. Even raiding had no purpose other than to risk his life. His father told him to be glad for it, but he saw it in Ulfrik's eyes too. They were both restless and bored. Peace was fine for a season. Not for a year.

  Certainly not for a lifetime.

  Bekan cleared his throat and Gunnar shook his head. "So I assume you bring me the joyous news because you fear Hrothgar will become violent and that I should put a stop to it?"

  "That was the intention. I left a few men with him, but the priest and his flock have gathered in strength. It's complicated. Those are our people too."

  "Franks were the enemy not long ago." Bekan glowered at Gunnar from beneath his brow, causing him to chuckle. "But I know times have changed. Hrothgar was on the land first, so he should be compensated for its use."

  "Then you had best tell Father Lambert that. Should you ride to him now?"

  "I hate horses," Gunnar said. He shared his dislike for animals with his father, for no one in his family had any affinity with beasts but for Aren, who had raised a puppy once.

  "But you are more commanding on horseback," Bekan said. "You should look down on this priest as if you might step on him if he displeases you."

  "So you say. It is not a bad idea, though. Bring us two horses and we shall see what bold Father Lambert will do."

  He returned to the hall while Bekan fetched mounts from the stable. Morgan and his two daughters were spinning wool while other women labored over the looms. Letting them know he would be gone until l
ater, he kissed the heads of his two girls then fetched his sword from his room. Having lost his sword hand years ago to a mad Frankish warlord, he fought with an ax rather than a sword, which had far more utility for his fighting style. The sword was more recognizable as a symbol of authority to laymen, so he chose one for today. Back outside, Bekan had selected two horses with sleek seal brown coats. The beasts snorted at Gunnar as he approached.

  "She smells the mead on you," Bekan joked. "You remember how to ride?"

  "Help me onto this monster and let's get be gone."

  The journey across his lands was effortless from horseback, though Gunnar had only one hand for the reins of his horse. They followed trails that had been worn around old stumps, deep-set rocks, or other unnavigable patches. He waved at the farmers in their fields but did not stop to chat. He was never as good as his father with building relations with his people. He preferred they worked their farms, paid their taxes, and visited him only with good news.

  His territory was not wide, but was deep. Hrothgar's farm was at the northern tip closer to the Seine River, and he heard the shouting long before he saw the farm. They crested a rise then paused to review the situation. Gunnar easily spotted the squat, long buildings of Hrothgar's farm and the fences built around it. He scanned east of it to where the shouting echoed and saw the crowds gathered.

  "That's right in the middle of his pasture," Gunnar said.

  "Something Father Lambert does not understand."

  "Let's help him understand."

  Gunnar kicked his horse's flanks and guided the beast by its mane. He had difficulty in making it take a direct route. "Did you find the most contrary horse you could find?"

  "Ander said she was the most docile one of the bunch."

  "He is a liar."

  Their horses picked their own path down the slope and, true to Bekan's prediction, their arrival on horseback gained everyone's attention.