By mid-afternoon we arrived at Flasby, in my case, to a rib-crushing embrace from Eric Hammerhead followed by one from a healthy, strong-looking Olle. Here, in person, in living shape, was my scheme. I asked the bishop to recount his dream to Eric, who on hearing it, roared with laughter but, at once, on reflection and at the affronted expression of the cleric, replaced his smirk with a look of suitable awe.
“If the saint says so, who are we to mock?” he said, looking apologetic. “My first thought was if a slave can be king of the Danes, why not Eric Hammerhead, the strongest Dane in the land? But now I see that God’s will is different and…” he said, reverentially, “the Almighty is never wrong.”
What a change the healing of his son had wrought in Eric!
Next, I explained my idea to every
