He was also younger, with his close-cropped black hair only streaked with gray. Ulfrik did not believe a bishop could be anyone other than the most ancient priests the Christians could find. Yet standing at the center of his hall, hands upon his hips, was a bishop no older than himself. The similarity ended there, for Bishop Burchard had a frail frame and a long, tired face that was clean-shaved and soft. The bishop had spent little time outdoors and certainly never worked at anything harder than counting his gold. His eyes were ringed with dark circles as if he had not slept in days, and his drooping nose and sagging chin made it seem as if his face would slide off his head. Ulfrik had dried his eyes, though his nose was still filled and his joints still weak with the crushing sadness of Snorri's death. Yet it all burned away at the sight of Bishop Burchard with his coterie of priests and wormy laymen lined behind him as if hiding from storm winds. A dozen of his own men lined the walls and all carried spears and shields, an intimidating display to anyone who didn't believe their god made them invulnerable, as the more ardent Christians maintained.
