It took five days for Thórólfr to gather the boats and men. Finally, with a flotilla of thirty-six longboats, they made their way across the sea to Rotta. From there, Rollo headed south. With these numbers of men and boats, he had visions of launching a surprise attack on Paris though it was late in the season. Typically, such attacks were made at the beginning of the viking season, in late spring and early summer.

Though the men would have rather attacked Haraldsson, Rollo knew that they would never survive such an undertaking. Haraldsson would be waiting and expecting just such an attack. These men who had just committed to following him as their leader needed something to celebrate, something to give them some measure of pride. And a viking victory was something to celebrate, a victory to ease the sting of their losses of friends, family, and home.

The plan was to travel to Harfleur, then to follow the Seine River to Paris. The stories of Ragnar Lothbrok’s success twenty years earlier, had created a hunger in many Norsemen to match, if not surpass the successes of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok.

Having lost his father and brother, and the Kingdom of the Western Isles, Rollo wanted more than plunder, silver, and gold. His objective was to carve out a part of Francia to make a new homeland for his followers. He knew that a few villages along the River Samara wouldn’t ever give him that homeland.

So it was, in the early autumn of 876, that Rollo reached the mouth of the Seine River with a party of thirty-six warships. Each longboat carried forty fearless fighting Danes. The winds were favourable as they sailed for the mouth of the Seine River.

Once the warships entered the river itself, their first stop was Harfleur, a thriving port. A treaty of sorts had been in place with the headman of the settlement. The port was too valuable as a supply depot for longer voyages to risk its destruction in raids. All Norsemen honoured the unwritten treaty. Rollo had given his men leave to visit the inns and brothels, warning them to avoid bloodshed.

“Drink your fill and enjoy the wenches which are always a treat in Harfleur,” Rollo ordered. “Just remember that rape and pillage and murder will be punished with death, not an honourable death in combat, but a death that will deny you entrance to Valhalla.”

Halfdan was ordered to keep an eye on the men and to intervene should things get out of hand. Thórólfr went with Rollo to spend the evening with the Jarl, the headman of the port town.

“Ah, young Rollo,” greeted the Jarl, Isaac le Breton, “where is your father and brother? Isn’t it late in the season to be out viking?”

Rollo turned to Thórólfr who answered, “Both are dead, murdered by King Haraldsson. Rollo is now commander of what remains of his father’s boats and men.”

“This is dire news, indeed. I never could stand that man, an arrogant prick who thinks his shit doesn’t stink,” Issac stated with a sneer. “I suppose that means the Western Isles are no longer in your control, Sire?”

Rollo arched his eyebrows with being addressed with the honorific of “Sire.” With all that had happened, the truth of that statement though flattering, was also a heavy burden.

The rest of the evening passed pleasurably with both Thórólfr and Rollo given the choice of which woman would warm their bed for the night.

* * *

The second stop was in a quiet and large bay along the river, where they lay at anchor for the next night. The next stop before Rouen came at Jumièges, after a hard day of interspersed use of the sails and oars. The village of Jumièges appeared to be abandoned. Rollo went ashore with just the men from his longboat. The remaining boats held their position close to the shore. The land in front of the palisade had been cleared for pasture and farmland, along a small bay of the river, making for easy access to the front gates. The sounds of chickens and a few cows on the other side of the palisade told the truth about the presence of people behind the walls. Rollo could almost smell their fear.

Rollo called his men to halt while he strode forward. He placed his bright blue shield and axe into Halfdan’s hands before advancing yet another ten paces. Holding only an enormous hammer, he called out, “Open your doors and I promise you your village will not be sacked and burnt to the ground. If not, your walls will fall, and we’ll erase the fact that you have ever existed.”

The threat hung in the air for a long moment before a voice replied, “I take you at your word, the doors will be opened.”

Rollo took Halfdan and Thórólfr with him, while the rest formed a threatening presence in the background. The doors opened and the man who had spoken, stood framed at the entrance. Rollo strode forward to speak with the man, whom he had assumed was the village’s headman.

“Who is the one man who threatens your leadership in this community?” Rollo demanded catching the headman by surprise. “Every leader has enemies. I have enemies, you have enemies. And there is always one enemy who is the most dangerous of all our enemies.”

The headman was surprised with the question. “Why my lord? I don’t understand.”

“Your real enemy is not facing you right now, headman. Your enemy is already inside your village. Who is he?” Rollo gave the man the fiercest glower which had the headman shrink back in fear.

“My lord, it is Blaise, my brother. He is my half-brother.”

Rollo studied the man in front of him briefly before calling out, “Blaise! Come forward or be forever known as a coward!”

A man who showed little in the way of fear, came forward from the front rank of men who had gathered behind their headman. “I am Blaise, Lord. I am no coward. The coward is my brother, Jean.”

Jean looked at Blaise with hatred before turning to face Rollo, fawning as he spoke, “My Lord, as you say, every rightful leader has enemies. Blaise has no respect for authority and deals in falsehoods. He is a man not to be trusted.”

Rollo gave the headman a frown which sent a wave of fear coursing through Jean’s body. The fear was evident in a slight tremble in the man’s hands that he nervously wrung.

“Both of you, on your knees while I consider what you have told me. One of you will never rise.”

Jean began to protest as he hastened to his knees. Blaise stared defiantly at Rollo, refusing to bend his knee. Noticing a growing puddle under the headman, Rollo had made his choice. With a mighty swing of his hammer, Jean’s skull was crushed, with his brains and flecks of blood spraying Blaise, who stood in shock.

“Blaise, you are now the headman of this village.” Looking past Blaise, Rollo addressed his next words to the men just inside the entrance. “Is there any man present who protests my decision? Blaise is now your headman, and he has my protection.”

Not a single voice rose in opposition to the giant of a man who had just killed their leader with one blow of his hammer.

“Good, then it is settled. Blaise, you are the headman of this village. Serve me well or you will join your half-brother in Hel.”

* * *

A few hours later, while sitting around a fire near the shore of the River, Halfdan asked about the strange scene that he had witnessed earlier.

“Think, Halfdan. We will have to return this way on our way back. I don’t want needless enemies. I am thinking of a larger prize for us in the future. I want to take Paris and make it pay us more than it did to Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“So? What does today have to do with that?”

“Making our enemies our allies will allow us to face less opposition, lose less men. Blaise and his town will have a vested interest in having our back. It’ll work, believe me, Halfdan.”

Thórólfr nodded his approval of Rollo’s words. “Your father was right. He predicted that you would become the most successful of all Danes.”

Rollo looked at Thórólfr with surprise. “Did he really say that?”

“That and more. He said that your name would become engraved in history, that your bloodline will become that of kings ”