Christ, I can no longer be dumb.” Thorgills turned pleadingly to Earl Sigvalde, “Thou, my Jarl, who watched over our Olaf’s rights so long, add now thy voice to mine. Let him not fill his kingdom with groans of hate because our heathen are slow in accepting Christ. Thy noble lady, the king’s kinswoman, hath taught the Norse maidens to spin to the music of our Olaf’s sagas, and must she see him put in peril the crown she guarded so long? Constantinople is jealous of every land Rome gains. Michael works upon this jealousy among his people, and, my Olaf, they would make thee their tool.”
“They shall not! They shall not!” The king’s voice rang through the chamber. “I swear by the sign of the White Christ, the torture of the heathen shall cease this day.”
“Mayest thou keep that vow, my King,” said Thorgills. “In a little while thou canst send back the Greeks, whom the people love not. There is a sore dissension between the Western and the Eastern Church, Rome and Constantinople, Bruno and Michael. Every year the Byzantines are getting farther away from Rome, and becoming more determined to be rulers of the Church. When the great break comes, let us be with the Western mother of our faith.”
Olaf remained in deep thought for awhile. Then Earl Sigvalde, who had listened in silence for some time, spoke:
