landing, had for many years a quaint old church, surrounded by cross-marked graves, and enclosed with a stone wall. This little church beside the sea, looking over to the mountains of the mainland, marked the spot where King Olaf planted his standard, when he consecrated Norway as the land of the Cross.
“And thou sayest, Thore, the Tronders are sworn to me? I do remember me of the time the Tronders were the vassals of Jarl Haakon. What hath changed their fealty?”
“The fame of thy valor, and that thou art of the race of Harold Fair-haired.”
Thore was looking down at the floor, not wishing to meet the strong, true gaze of Olaf.
“I would have thought,” said the king musingly, “it were better to go to Viken, where my mother Aastrid dwells, and where my step-father is a powerful jarl. Then too Viken is the old kingdom of my father that was left to him by his grandsire, Harold Fair-haired. It seems as if I should go to Viken first. The Tronders of the Trondelag, albeit they always swore against Jarl Haakon’s taxes, were his faithful war vassals.”
“They swear no more at his taxes, my King, for they pay them not. They swear him no more fealty, they give him no more service. To the Trondelag we should go. Straight must we steer to the Nidaros Fiord, where thy faithful Tronders wait.” And in his false soul, he said, “Where I shall find Jarl Haa-
