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  Father Lambert stood in his black robes, his hair cut blunt and short, making his fat round head look like melon. His flesh looked like white clay to Gunnar's eyes, and he appeared doughy, as if he had never lifted anything heavier than a quill pen. Hrothgar was his exact opposite, a gnarled mass of lumpy muscle weathered from years under the sun both behind a plow and a shieldwall. He had three yellow teeth, yellow eyes, and a snarl that made a rabid wolf seem tame. Father Lambert had about fifteen followers lined up behind him, mostly men but some women and children, all in simple clothing, arranging rocks in a wide rectangle to mark the location of the proposed church. Watching them listlessly were a handful of Gunnar's hirdmen, who gave him pleading looks.

  "It's about time someone in authority showed up," Father Lambert said. Gunnar had only met him once, but his voice was pitched too high for a man and dripped with a whinny sarcasm that made Gunnar's hand itch to strike him. He stared up at Gunnar on his horse, undaunted by the animal.

  "What's going on here?" He looked to Hrothgar, whose red face relaxed upon seeing him.

  "Jarl Gunnar, this fool wants to stick his church in the center of my pasture."

  "So I see," Gunnar stroked his beard as if in careful thought. "How much did he pay you for it? Such a prime field must have cost the good priest a fortune."

  "The old farmer will be compensated for the land. But I have a decree from Bishop Burchard to begin immediate construction of a church to serve our flock in these lands." Father Lambert's cheeks jiggled as he spoke, and Gunnar wanted to kick him in the face. It was an impulse he resisted, but he detested Christian priests, and this one was more odious than most.

  "Impressive. The compensation doesn't sound very specific. You seemed to have staked out a wide patch of land, a very specific gain, and offered Hrothgar nothing better than a dream of some future reward. Before I agree to this church of yours, I'd like to know what exactly you are paying for the land and when."

  Father Lambert's eyes drew to slits and he cocked his head at Gunnar as if debating whether to throw a punch. His followers put down their rocks and gathered closer. Hrothgar folded his arms in victory. "That's right, priest. How much gold are you offering for my land?"

  "Did you not hear who has authorized this?" Father Lambert's voice was a low threat. "Bishop Burchard's decree is all I require to begin construction of my church. You have the Church's promise to compensate Hrothgar for his land. That is enough."

  "It's not enough for me," Gunnar said. Bekan glanced at him, probably wondering when he would erupt into violence. Gunnar did not look at him, but stared down at the priest from the horse. "I will summon my hirdmen to put a stop to this. You are on my land and abide by my laws."

  "You impetuous boy," Father Lambert said. "This land is held by Hrolf the Strider, and he his beholden to King Charles. He has demanded the Church rebuild its presence where your kind banished it. Bishop Burchard has his orders from the king, and an even mightier power in Jesus Christ!"

  Gunnar had done all he could to dam the tide of anger, and invoking the name of the Christian god to steal his property broke it wide open.

  "I'll have your fucking arrogant head on a spear!" His tore his sword from its sheath as he yelled. Father Lambert's eyes went from slitted defiance to wide-open terror, and he sprang back. "This is my land, and if you want to steal it, then bring an army instead of old men and women."

  The hirdmen drew their swords and a woman screamed. Father Lambert scampered away, then fell on his back.

  In the same moment, Fate revealed its designs.

  Gunnar's supposedly docile horse shrieked at the sudden violence and reared. Out of reflex, Gunnar dropped his sword and seized the reins with his one hand. Someone howled and everyone began shouting. The spooked horse bolted and Gunnar could do nothing but hold onto its neck while it charged away. Had it been any other man in another situation, Gunnar would have balled up in laughter, but now his rage turned to fear as the animal dashed back up the slope. Realizing this beast was not going to calm down, he had no choice but to leap from it. He closed his eyes and threw himself clear into a patch of clover. Despite the soft appearance, he landed on rocks that drove the wind from his lungs. He lay staring at the stark blue sky above for long moments before he regained his senses.

  The stupid animal had thudded away over the crest, and Gunnar stood up and dusted off his pants. Back down the slope, his hirdmen were chasing away many of Father Lambert's followers, while a small knot of them crowded around something. Bekar's horse had also run off. Stomach tight with fear, Gunnar took the first painful steps downhill then broke into a jog when the pain abated.

  He pushed through the crowd and found Father Lambert on his back in the grass. Gunnar's dropped sword had speared the priest's left leg. His face was pasty white, and he shivered with pain. The dark cloth around the sword glistened from the spreading pool of blood. Bekan was cutting away the robe to get a better look at the wound. Gunnar closed his eyes and turned aside.

  From behind he heard a woman from Father Lambert's followers accuse him. "You ran him through. You killed Father Lambert!"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ulfrik rushed back across the field toward his hall. A tight pain built in his left leg as he swished through ankle-high grass, but he ignored it. Aren was ahead, pausing to turn and wait for him. The black shape of the long hall still felt so far away, and he feared he would never reach it in time.

  "I wish we had horses," Ulfrik called out to his son. "You should've brought one."

  Aren's face was red, whether from embarrassment at the mistake or anger at their speed, Ulfrik could not guess. A crowd of people had gathered at the front doors of his hall, and his heart dropped at the sight of it. He redoubled his pace.

  They threaded the paths between homes and buildings, mounting the heavily worn track to his hall. He was careful not to step into a rut lest he break his leg. The murmur of the crowd was tense, and Ulfrik glimpsed Hakon emerging from the hall. As he and Aren closed the final distance, the crowd began to disperse. A woman with baggy, sad eyes looked at him mournfully as he passed. Two more men behind her nodded solemnly. He caught up to Aren at the hall doors.

  "How is he?" Ulfrik asked.

  Hakon shook his head and looked aside. "He lives."

  "Thank the gods for that much." Ulfrik glanced past Hakon to Runa who stood in the shadows. Her face was puffy and she did not wear her head cover. He pushed past Hakon and grabbed her by both arms.

  Her eyes were wet from crying, and Ulfrik had no words to comfort her. He gently squeezed her arms, and she placed her cold hands over his.

  "He has been asking for you," Hakon said. "I don't think it is long now."

  Ulfrik swallowed hard and nodded. It was a day he knew would come, but he was not ready for it. He tenderly folded Runa's hands back to her sides, then straightened himself. "I will go to him now, and not leave again until this is done."

  Being a jarl of such a large and important territory had proved a demanding task. His decision was required for everything, particularly where the Seine River trade was involved. He had spent the morning sending off an important trader and had to scurry back when Aren arrived with dire news. Fortunately he did not need to accompany the trader to the river, which was half a day's walk.

  He crossed his empty hall, limping with the pain of his old wound, but not losing a stride. The tables had been cleared to the sides and he only had to skirt the large hearth at the center. Mounting the rise to the high tables, he passed through the wide door to his room and immediately the scent of death filled his nose. He stopped, not out of reflex, for he had long grown accustomed to the smell of the dead, but from fear of what he might find.

  Yellow points of lamplight encircled Snorri as he lay on Ulfrik's bed. He was stripped to his waist, and his thin, frail body glistened with sweat. His gray body hair was like a fine cloud clinging to his skin, and his chest rose and fell with his shallow breath. His age-spotted hands were folded over
a sword that Runa had placed over his chest. A wet towel was folded over his brow, and his head rested on a block of pure ash wood to draw off evil spirits. Yet in one glance Ulfrik understood there was no evil here, only old age and the time Fate had selected for death.

  "Is that you, lad?" His voice was weak and strained. Ulfrik swallowed, then entered his own bedchamber.

  "It is. Save your strength. I will sit with you until you are well again."

  Snorri's laughter was like the crackling of dry leaves. His eyes were sunken into their sockets and his face was more skull-like than the prior day. It seemed overnight he had deteriorated. Ulfrik put his hand on Snorri's forehead and felt the heat emanating from it.

  "You should not have traveled here," Ulfrik said, trying not to let blame slip into his voice, though he heard it bite into his words.

  "And why not? I am glad to spend my final days with you, lad."

  "Don't say it."

  "I'm old, lad. Older than I have a right to be. No man dies before his time, but when his time arrives, no man may avoid it."

  Ulfrik patted Snorri's shoulder and the two sat in silence. Einar had taken Snorri to visit, as he had not been to Ulfrik's hall in the year and half since Hrolf made peace with the Franks. Snorri had planned to stay a month, then Einar would return to fetch him home. The night after Einar left, he complained of a sour stomach. Within days he was too sick to stand. Ulfrik gave him his bed, and had healers to tend him day and night, but he only worsened. Men were dispatched to call Einar back, but so far he had not arrived. He would not be present for his father's death, for Snorri seemed to have few breaths remaining.

  Runa and her two sons quietly joined him by the bedside. Snorri's eyes were closed but he continued to breathe. At last his lids fluttered open and he reached out a hand for Ulfrik. He grabbed it in his own, feeling Snorri's intense heat.

  "How old am I?" Snorri asked.

  "I'm not sure. Maybe you are seventy, or perhaps older?" Ulfrik tried to think back to his earliest memories, but Snorri had always been a man.

  "Does Harald Finehair still rule in Norway?"

  Ulfrik laughed. "Of course he does. Why do you ask now?"

  "I promised your father I'd never stand for one jarl ruling over all others. Remember how we fought Harald?"

  "How could I forget? It was a terrible battle. So many friends were lost that day." Ulfrik had also killed his brother and avenged his father's murder in the same battle, but even after so many years he still could not discuss it. Some wounds never healed.

  "So now one jarl rules over all others, but we call him a different name." Snorri's watery eyes fixed on him. "How does that figure, lad?"

  Swallowing hard, he could only stare at Snorri's knowing eyes. His face grew hot with shame. The answer was now he had gained too much land and wealth to reject the offer, whereas under Harald he had nothing more than a half dozen farms. Snorri's trembling hand squeezed his.

  "It's all right, lad. Your father would not have done any different. Hrolf has been generous and you deserve all you have gained. But be wary of what you trade for it." He paused to catch his breath, and Ulfrik folded Snorri's hand to his chest.

  "Rest now," he said. "We can speak again later."

  "There's no later. I must use every breath wisely. Listen to me, lad. I don't like the mixing of our people with the Franks. Already we're losing ourselves. Don't grow soft. Remember our people and our ways." Snorri spoke in a rush, his voice rough and tired.

  "I can do nothing else, old friend." Ulfrik omitted how many of his people had already begun to intermarry with the Franks and how some spoke Frankish in their own homes.

  "Good, and keep the Church out of your lands. I have seen my own son forced to give away property and gold to them. They use Hrolf's authority like a war hammer. Don't let them take what you have built. All they want is your land, your people, and your gold."

  "You know I've no love of the Christian priests."

  "Hrolf is on their side now. I've seen it. How much blood have our people spilled to make a home here, only to give it to some soft-bellied priest? Promise me you won't let it happen to you. And help my son keep what he has."

  "You have my word." Snorri nodded and closed his eyes again. Ulfrik glanced at Runa and his sons, who returned a grave stare. Snorri rested in silence, and when Ulfrik prepared to allow his friend rest, Snorri again opened his eyes.

  His spotted, blue-veined hand grabbed the sword lying over his body. "I am seventy years old?"

  A smile came to Ulfrik's face. "So I have counted. You're the oldest person I've ever known."

  Snorri stared at something only his eyes could discern and smiled. "It was all good. I only wish it hadn't been so short."

  Ulfrik's throat seized up and tears stung his eyes. Snorri no longer saw him, and his breathing grew more shallow. Runa began to sob quietly at his back. He firmly pressed both of Snorri's hands on the hilt of the sword laid across his body.

  "It was too short, old friend. You were as a father to me." The lump in his throat made his voice break and he could speak no more. He did not want to mar Snorri's final moments with unmanly tears.

  "And you were as a son. My last wish for you, lad, is don't die like me. I was a warrior." He paused to wheeze and cough. His eyes still looked at another world. "I should not die in bed. Neither should you. Die on the battlefield with a sword in hand and a foeman's blood on your face. That is how a great warrior dies. Not coughing his final breaths on a bed."

  "A sword is in your grip now," Ulfrik said, patting Snorri's burning hands. "You will join the heroes in Odin's feasting hall. I shall see you there."

  "No, I am too old for Odin to take me. I will go to Freya's hall, and see my wife. Dear Gerdie, she has waited so long. Odin will want you at his table. We shall not meet again."

  Snorri lapsed into silence and his breathing grew more strained. Ulfrik watched his face twitch and twist as he dreamed. Time stretched on as Ulfrik and his family kept a tense vigil.

  Then his lips moved in his final whisper. "Tell Einar his mother and I are so proud of him."

  His breathing stopped and Ulfrik put his ear to Snorri's chest. When he heard nothing, tears filled his eyes and he sat up with his fists clenched.

  "Good-bye, Snorri. You were the last of the old breed, a great warrior, and greater friend. Your name shall not be forgotten."

  The tears streamed freely, and he was glad no one but his family witnessed his shame. Runa's hands embraced him from behind and he folded his arm over hers. She had loved Snorri as much as he did, perhaps even more. His passing made a hole in Ulfrik's heart from which the tears flowed. In time he would fix the hole, but with Snorri's shrunken, pale body lying on his bed, he could not imagine when that would be.

  A knock on the door shook him. Immediately his stomach burned and his teeth clenched. "Whatever it is, go away."

  Rather than hearing the intruder leave, the door opened. Ulfrik was ready to explode with anger, but Finn poked his head inside. His freckled face turned red as he quickly surveyed the scene.

  "I am so sorry, but there is a bishop in the hall and he is like a mad dog."

  The words made no sense to Ulfrik. He hadn't invited any of the Church, and a bishop was too important a visitor to not have been announced earlier. "What is a bishop doing in my hall?"

  "It's about Gunnar. The bishop says he attacked a priest and cut off his leg. He can't find Gunnar and says you're hiding him. I think the bishop wants his head."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bishop Burchard was taller than Ulfrik expected. He was also younger, with his close-cropped black hair only streaked with gray. Ulfrik did not believe a bishop could be anyone other than the most ancient priests the Christians could find. Yet standing at the center of his hall, hands upon his hips, was a bishop no older than himself. The similarity ended there, for Bishop Burchard had a frail frame and a long, tired face that was clean-shaved and soft. The bishop had spent little time outdoors and certa
inly never worked at anything harder than counting his gold. His eyes were ringed with dark circles as if he had not slept in days, and his drooping nose and sagging chin made it seem as if his face would slide off his head.

  Ulfrik had dried his eyes, though his nose was still filled and his joints still weak with the crushing sadness of Snorri's death. Yet it all burned away at the sight of Bishop Burchard with his coterie of priests and wormy laymen lined behind him as if hiding from storm winds. A dozen of his own men lined the walls and all carried spears and shields, an intimidating display to anyone who didn't believe their god made them invulnerable, as the more ardent Christians maintained.

  Finn gestured to the bishop, "Here is my Jarl Ulfrik Ormsson. On your knee, priest."

  The bishop put his hand to the large wooden cross that hung over his simple brown traveling robes. His nose curled as if manure had been shoved beneath it. "I kneel before God Almighty and my king, not a heathen murderer."

  "So much for peaceful relations," Ulfrik said. Hrolf had admonished all of his men to embrace Christianity, and for those who did not, to be tolerant and kind to those who did. He had ensured the Christians and their priests only sought peaceful relations, which Ulfrik considered one of the greatest lies Hrolf had ever told.

  "Yes, how quickly peace is forgotten along with your new duties and obligations," the bishop said. He sniffed and looked past Ulfrik at Aren and Hakon who had followed him into the hall. "So where is he, this Gunnar the Black? No doubt he hides behind you in that room. I demand he be turned over to me."

  Ulfrik folded his arms. "Make one more demand of me and you'll only be asking for help finding your broken teeth. Your authority ends at the borders of my lands. Now why are you searching for my son?"

  Bishop Burchard narrowed his eyes at Ulfrik and the sycophants huddling behind him pumped up their indignation, but the bishop wisely checked whatever challenge he was considering. Instead, he folded one hand beneath his elbow while his finger tapped the side of his face. "Well, you truly have not heard?"