Deep inside Telemark, Fleet Captain Lars McAllin of Vinland's dogsled teams surged ahead, scouting. The horse-drawn sleds were slower. McAllin swore by those dogsleds and those small bombards of his, but Francesca liked having the solid Danish soldiery in their sleds along as well. Several of them had volunteered—with remarkably little persuasion—to serve as confreres with the Knights of the Holy Trinity. It appeared that the Ritters had impressed while in Copenhagen. And the fact that they were under the command of a young Pole, not a Prussian, had helped still more. As long as the vile weather held off, the expeditionary force would be a surprise visitor to Kingshall. Foolish penmanship in that invitation from King Vortenbras gave them at least a semilegitimate reason to be there. If it proved less than acceptable, then Francesca knew that they had enough force to race through anything but serious opposition.
One of the Danes came back to her sleigh—the tip of her nose protruded from a fur mountain.
"Bad news, I'm afraid, milady," he said apologetically. "The lake hasn't frozen hard enough to cross it, as we expected. It'll mean going back a bit to where we can definitely cross."
"And that means a further delay. You do know that we're racing against time here," said Francesca worriedly.
"Yes, milady. You've said." The Dane smiled ruefully. "We should never have taken directions from that one-eyed man, but he seemed trustworthy. He said that this would be shorter."
Francesca sighed. "Well, we just have to do what must be done then. I hope we're not going to be too late."
"We'll do our best, milady," said the Dane.