Objects stolen from his monastery, just like he had been stolen. The Vikings had carried him to their homeland with a rope around his neck, for all the world as though they were leading a beast to market, and God had not seen fit to strike them down for it. As Leo sat in the jarl’s longhouse, watching the Vikings celebrate yet another successful raid, he could not keep from shivering at the sight of the altar vessel in the jarl’s hands. The jarl was the lord of the Viking village and the surrounding area, and he liked to choose the best of the spoils for himself. The jarl was drinking mead from the golden cup, rivers of it streaming past the cup’s jeweled rim and into his long beard. “Hail Runolf!” some of the men yelled, toasting their ship’s war leader, and the jarl gave them a look of displeasure. The jarl was an older man, and Runolf was a challenger to his power. Runolf was young, fit, and a leader of the most successful raids this village of Northmen had ever known. It might not be very long before Runolf son of Ragnar was the new jarl.
