Chapter 125: The Weight of Crowns
The parchment crackled faintly in Jarl Gunnarr’s hand, the seal of Ullrsfjörðr broken with care and reverence.
The courier who brought it waited at the hearth of his hall, silent, snow-dusted and weary. Gunnarr read the letter once in full, then again more slowly, word by word.
The script was unmistakably Vetrúlfr’s, firm, precise, carrying a weight that could never be mistaken for anything but command.
"Let them remain. They have registered, and thus, by our laws, they are permitted to stay for the duration they were granted. However... if they violate our laws in any way, be it theft, proselytizing, or slander of our gods, they are to be expelled. Not harmed. I suspect the Bishop of Rome has sent them to bait us. He seeks a wolf to bite so that Rome may claim to be bleeding. Do not give him what he wants. Let them see our strength is not barbarism, but restraint."
Gunnarr’s jaw tightened as he lowered the parchment. His fingers tapped the oaken armrest of his carved chair, the flickering torchlight casting his scarred face in deep relief.
The high king had spoken, not in rage or pride, but with the patience of a hunter who had seen the trap laid before him.
"Smart bastard," Gunnarr muttered to himself, a crooked smile forming at the edge of his beard. "Sees the bait for what it is."
He turned to Magnússon, his steward.
"Let word be sent to the town reeve. The priests are permitted to stay for the full fortnight. They are to be watched, but not harassed. They break no law; they are not to be touched."
"And if they preach in the square again?" Magnússon asked, arching a brow.
"Then they are escorted to the docks and put on the next fishing vessel south," Gunnarr said plainly. "With dry clothes, if they behave. Without, if they test our patience."
The steward nodded and turned to leave.