“My Jarl, if thou wouldst sit securely on the throne of Harold Fairhaired, thou must not let Olaf cast his shadow on the shore of Norway.”
“But where is Olaf?” Earl Haakon asked anxiously.
“Upon the Irish coast he tarries. He was cruising bravely on the English coast, and the poor Saxon, Ethelred, shook on his throne. Sweyn, of Denmark, and Olaf frightened the Saxons out of ten thousand pounds, that the miserable king paid for peace. Olaf gave freely to his men. He kept his own ship, the ‘Alruna,’ with Thorgills, his scald, and a few of his crew; and the rest he turned free. Then Olaf, who loves the new faith, even as thou, Jarl Haakon, dost hate the Christ, was confirmed with all pomp in King Ethelred’s chapel, before the whole Saxon court. Then he sailed for Dublin. Think thou, Jarl Haakon! Our Norsemen are wild over the deeds of Olaf, and thou art not even of the royal line.”
Earl Haakon’s face grew dark. “Thore Klakka, thou art my friend. Fair, fierce fights have welded us together. There is full gold in my coffers to fit out a ship that might take thee and a few trusty men to the Irish coast. Thou couldst persuade Olaf to come back to Norway. Once upon this land, this presumptuous boy, this viking who dares dispute with me to be the overlord of Norway, shall find–what shall he find?”
