Sword Brothers

by Jerry Autieri

  Time had stained the tight curls of her hair with gray, but had not diminished the fullness of it. She had at last succumbed to pressure and wore a head covering like every other married woman. Her waist had thickened and lines had worn between her brows, but she was as beautiful to him as ever. He was conscious of the limp bought on from all his running, and struggled to walk straight to her. When he enveloped her in his arms, more cheers went up.

  He felt drunk on her sweet scent and her warm, soft body against his tired skin was a salve to all his pains. They kissed deeply, and when they drew apart he looked into her dark eyes. "Sorry I was delayed. It pleases me to find you well and happy for my return."

  Her smile deepened, and she put a warm, smooth hand to his cheek. "Welcome home, Ulfrik."

  She turned to Hakon, and Ulfrik knew she did not recognize him at first glance. Gunnar also seemed to not recognize him until Hakon presented himself. Runa gave a short gasp and ran to him. "What happened to you?"

  "It's not as bad as it looks," Ulfrik said, pulling his wife back from Hakon. "We had some difficulties escaping the Franks. Hakon caught an arrow through the mouth. He's lost a few teeth and his tongue was cut, but give the boy time and he'll be spitting and cursing again."

  Runa's face was pale with shock and her dark eyes were like two dots in circles of white. Her hands hovered around Hakon's face, unsure of what to do, but he gently grabbed her wrists and lowered them. He tried to speak, yet only muffled words escaped the bandages. Runa's eyes teared up.

  "His tongue was cut? Will he speak again?"

  "Of course, Finn stitched it back together." He turned to point at Finn, but discovered he was lost in the arms of his own woman.

  "Stitched it back together?" Ulfrik did not think she could grow any paler, but she did. Gunnar shook his head and led Ulfrik away by the arm.

  "Father, you've spent too many days talking to warriors and have forgotten how to speak to your wife."

  "Well, wasn't she Runa the Bloody once? You know what your mother's history--"

  "You're missing the point, Father. Hakon is her little boy. Come with me. You've got grandchildren waiting for you."

  They pushed through the clumps of people embracing in welcome. Some were families reunited, others were younger boys crowding their older peers, others were just tradesmen come to enjoy the happiness of returning warriors. All around them was jovial chatter and laughter, Ulfrik's favorite part of returning from a long raid. His hall dominated a wide swath of crucial farmland and river trade along the Seine. Everyone here had a stake in his successfully demonstrating strength.

  Gunnar's wife was a woman he had captured in England during his dark years as a raider. A full-bodied woman who stood no taller than Gunnar's chest, she went by the name of Morgan. She had learned to love Gunnar and gave him many children, though most had not lived. Not until Gunnar settled his own lands next to Ulfrik's did his family begin to prosper and his children survive. He had two girls and a son, and all three were a delight to Ulfrik. The boy was only two years old, but looked like him with bright blue eyes and golden hair that had Gunnar's strong curls.

  Standing with his grandchildren was Aren, or Broken-Tooth as others had come to call him. It was a cruel name, for his true father had smashed his front teeth in a fit of rage. Yet he did not disagree with it, and made up bold lies of how he had come by the disfigurement. His wide, inscrutable face regarded Ulfrik with an outward coolness that Ulfrik knew masked a fierce love. Though not his son by blood, Aren was his wife's son, carrying both her passions and her loyalty. To that he bought his own keen intelligence that made him a master of both men and strategy. At twenty-one years of age, Aren had not filled out and remained far less imposing than his half-brothers, nor did he possess Finn's wiry strength.

  He stood with arms locked behind his back as Ulfrik approached. Aren's eyes swept Ulfrik's body head to toe, examining all the cuts and scars he had earned on this campaign. Most did not show on the outside, but Aren was adept enough that he would eventually see those internal wounds as well. "Welcome home, Father. You look well."

  "That I am," he said, then gave Aren a bear hug that he returned with a weak pat. "No worries while I was gone?"

  "I saw to everything as you would," Aren said. Ulfrik had left him in charge, for, though lacking physical strength, his sharp mind and insight into the hearts of men made him a formidable leader. He would anticipate trouble long before even the troublemakers themselves considered it, then stamp it dead at the root.

  "I have news," Ulfrik said. "I want your opinions on the matter when we have time to talk alone."

  Aren's eyes flicked over Ulfrik's shoulder, and he turned to see Runa fussing over Hakon's injury. "I watched you trying to explain Hakon's wound to Mother. You seemed ill at-ease. Would that be part of our discussion?"

  Ulfrik nodded and Aren flashed a small smile. "As perceptive as ever. Tell me, did Vilhjalmer bring you a woman while I was gone? Hrolf seemed to think the two of you would be up to mischief."

  Now Aren's face flushed bright red. Despite his ability to read a person, he had little skill with women. He had told Ulfrik it was because he saw through all the women who wanted him for his riches and status. Ulfrik saw no problem with those intentions, but it bothered his son.

  "Vilhjalmer is not allowed to do anything without a dozen guards. You know that, Father."

  "The lad is fifteen now, that's a man in anyone's eyes. He's become your best friend, and I'm sure he can do as he pleases."

  "Your grandchildren," Aren said with a raised brow. "They're patiently waiting."

  "Of course!" He turned to Morgan, who smiled then released her three children to run for Ulfrik. He gathered them together as they clamored for his attention. The eldest girl, Hilde, gave him a soft, gentle kiss upon his cheek and Ulfrik laughed with joy. He swept Gunnar's youngest, his son Leif, into his arms and put him on his shoulders. The middle child Thorgerd, a red-haired girl with green eyes, took his hand, and together they all made for the hall.

  The reunion celebration lasted all day and filled his hall to bursting. Though he had wished to recapture Ravndal, he had been given Konal's lands shortly after his return. Not satisfied with that parcel of land, he threw himself into conquest and expanded Hrolf's borders south of the Seine. The work of the last six years had been to pacify this area and provide Hrolf a choke hold on the western Seine River. His reward was this massive swatch of land, and he left Konal's old lands to Einar. He built a great mead hall, twice the size of what he had at Ravndal, second only to Hrolf's great hall outside of Rouen. His success and fame attracted people from all over Hrolf's expansive territory, and even from beyond. Whatever he had lost when Konal had betrayed him to his enemies, he regained and then added to it. He never had to tap the fortune in jewels that Runa had recovered from Konal.

  The day turned to night and to day once more. Scores of hirdmen and their women were sprawled in the great hall, sleeping off the drink of the prior night's feast. Even Ulfrik had been too exhausted to find his bed and he awoke under the table with Runa tucked into his arms and gently snoring. The scent of mead and smoke was heavy in the hall, and he carefully extracted himself from his sleeping wife. She had celebrated as hard as any man, and paid for it by passing out early in the night. He kissed her forehead, then stood.

  A few others had recovered and now sat staring blankly ahead as the fog of the night wore off. He sat at the high table, and a servant roused from the corner of the hall to attend him. The young girl bought a bowl of water and set it before him. He dipped his hands into the cool water and rubbed it on his face. When he lowered his hands, the hall doors opened and three men rushed inside.

  He sat back on his bench as the men knelt before him. Above their heads, Ulfrik's green standard of black elk antlers hung from the rafters. "Jarl Ulfrik, a messenger from Jarl Hrolf the Strider has arrived."

  "Do not keep him," Ulfrik said. The men hurried back with one of Hrolf's warriors, who likewise k
nelt to Ulfrik.

  "My lord, Jarl Hrolf the Strider has summoned you to attend him at once. Bring a guard of fifty men."

  "Fifty men?" Ulfrik straightened on his bench. "Then he is in no danger?"

  The messenger shook his head. "We are not sure. I only know what I have been ordered. Yet, the rumor is the King of the Western Franks, Charles the Simple, wants to offer us peace. I think we have beaten them, Jarl Ulfrik."

  Ulfrik blinked, his mind racing. "A peace? From the king himself?"

  "It is what I've heard, Jarl Ulfrik. You must not delay. We are to travel north again and meet King Charles at the border. I do not know the place, but perhaps you do. The Franks call it Saint Clair sur Epte, if I have spoken right."

  "So you have," Ulfrik said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It is not far from lands I once ruled."

  The idea of a peace after being defeated was strange, but Ulfrik had seen the Franks give away their victories before. Another king once had them all encircled and yet surrendered and paid ransom. Perhaps this was the same thing. He had only to attend Hrolf to find out.

  "I will leave at once," he said. "While I prepare, make yourself welcomed in my hall."

  CHAPTER NINE

  The land rolled away to grassland on every side, a bright blue sky shining down as if in blessing of the day. Ulfrik stood to the rear with his men, where Hrolf and his guard of one hundred hirdmen in freshly scoured mail awaited the arrival of the King of the Western Franks, Charles the Simple. They saw the long train of armored Franks approaching. Behind it a stone church dominated the small village of Saint Clair sur Epte. This place had been chosen for the impossibility of launching an ambush. Ulfrik guessed that despite the offer of peace, the Franks still did not trust Hrolf.

  He stood with Gunnar and Einar flanking him. Both men had come as part of Ulfrik's guard and had not been invited. If this was to become the momentous day Hrolf promised, he had wanted both of them at hand to witness it. Einar had especially done much to advance Hrolf's power even as he had grown his own. No one spoke, not daring to break the tense silence that gripped Hrolf's men. All wanted to appear mighty and aloof, particularly after having been chased out of Chartres.

  A flock of geese flew overhead, heading toward the Franks, and more than one man nodded at the favorable sign. Hrolf himself even looked skyward and he pointed to the flock, speaking to one of his guards. He stood at least a head taller than the tallest man among them, dressed in his finest clothes and jewels and covered in a bright red robe. The jewels upon his fingers sparkled as he pointed. He had planted his banner of yellow dragons on a red flag and it stirred in the light breeze.

  The column drew closer and Ulfrik strained to see it. They were still indistinct with the morning sun behind them, another ploy the Franks had for discouraging attack. Ulfrik squinted but was only able to determine where the king rode by the tight cluster of armored horsemen surrounding him. He could still not see King Charles's features. Like everyone else, this would be his first glimpse of the king that had thwarted them since the death of Odo several years ago. He was called the Simple, for he preferred direct, uncomplicated dealings. Ulfrik liked this king, who had been less strident than Odo and far less cunning.

  As Hrolf and his men waited in silence, hands resting on their swords or clasped at their backs, Ulfrik avoided glancing toward Mord. Of course he and Gunther One-Eye had been invited. Old Gunther had been a friend from long ago, and was Hrolf's right hand since his childhood. Now Gunther had a white cataract over his single eye, and his once muscular body had wasted with age. He could no longer fight, but he served Hrolf in other ways. His son, Mord, however, had proved to be far less capable than his father. Ulfrik harbored doubts about his man, Magnus the Stone. During this journey to Saint Clair sur Epte, Mord had been cordial, which Ulfrik had assumed was out of respect for both his father and Hrolf. He almost appeared like the young man who had served him for years, and less the sour complainer he had become since taking a Frankish wife. He did steal a glance, finding him staring ahead like the others, looking for all the world a contented and sincere man. For a moment Ulfrik wondered if Magnus had truly made an honest error.

  The arrival of King Charles the Simple was preceded by an advanced guard that dismounted and walked to the center of the field. Hrolf sent his own contingent to meet them. Ulfrik wondered at their discussion, for the Franks had many frivolous details about their kings and their god that had to be observed. For their part, Hrolf had ordered peace straps on every man's swords so that no weapon might be drawn in haste, nor was anyone allowed spears, hand axes, or bows. That should have been enough for the Franks, but the parley groups wrangled for what felt half the day.

  "I'm growing older as I wait here," Ulfrik whispered to Einar. "I bet they want to dig a hole for Hrolf to stand in so he doesn't appear taller than their king."

  Einar chuckled, but Ulfrik was half serious. Soon Hrolf's men returned, and after a brief discussion he ordered everyone to accompany him. "My jarls should attend me, and let the others stay close at hand. Do not be impressed with their displays of strength. Remember we are Northmen and they are but Franks, their greatest power is in talking us to death."

  All laughed at Hrolf's jab, and Ulfrik joined Mord, Einar, and a few others at Hrolf's side. Mord led Gunther One-Eye, and Ulfrik allowed him to stand at Hrolf's right hand. "This position is yours, old friend."

  Gunther smiled but said nothing, and Mord even inclined his head. Hrolf was too intent on meeting the Frankish king to notice anything else. The Franks moved with practice, as if they had rehearsed this moment a dozen times. A young boy led the king's white horse forward while his armored guards surrounded him. They all wore blue surcoats with yellow designs like arrowheads. A man got on his hands and knees and the king used him as a stepping stool, no doubt a worthless slave to be treated no better than a footrest.

  King Charles was not dressed as the others. He wore a simple shirt of cream colored linen, and a brooch of gold pinned a red cape at his neck. His dark eyes were hooded and calculating, sunken into deep sockets. His hair and beard were neat and close-trimmed in the Frankish style. He wore a thin crown of gold embedded with jewels. Ulfrik noted several of them matched those in his own secret horde. Perhaps Konal had not exaggerated their value as a king's ransom.

  "His Majesty, King Charles the Third," announced one of his guards. At least one priest also attended him, a bald-headed man with shrewd eyes and a heavy gold cross swinging over his belly. No doubt he would be whispering to the king throughout this meeting.

  King Charles was assisted to the ground much like a lady, and Ulfrik heard men snicker behind him. He forced his own face to remain expressionless. Hrolf appeared unsure of the protocol, so he announced himself. "Jarl Hrolf the Strider, master of the Seine."

  The bold shout drew disgusted looks from the king's attendants, but Charles himself parted his thin lips in a smile. Ulfrik might have guessed it to be genuine were he not convinced all Frankish royalty were born of snakes and lizards. The king approached with his interpreter, priest, and two bodyguards. Hrolf needed no one to speak for him, but had a young lad who spoke Frankish fluently. Otherwise, he took no bodyguard, confident in strength and safety.

  "A fine day for this meeting," Hrolf said. "You've come a long way from Paris."

  "I have, and not for small talk, Jarl Hrolf. I trust my emissaries have explained to you the terms of my offer, and your presence here confirms our acceptance."

  "I'm here because your messengers interested me. As for agreeing to anything, that depends upon what I hear from you today."

  King Charles's wooden smile died and he blinked in quick succession. "You will not have me negotiate with you now. My offer was clear and your arrival here is confirmation."

  "You're not my king yet."

  Hrolf's statement sent a ripple through his ranks. Ulfrik struggled to keep from staring at Hrolf. Was this a surrender? This was to be victory over the Franks, as Hrolf had promised when
he had summoned him.

  "Then I shall state the terms again, and you shall either accept or decline as is your right. Do not negotiate, for I will not abide it, nor will I idle here one moment longer to hear it. Do I make myself clear, Jarl Hrolf?"

  Ulfrik bristled at the insolence of this man. Hrolf had asked for nothing more than a fair statement of terms, and this pompous Frank derided him like a subordinate. For Hrolf's part, he held his tongue and waited for King Charles.

  The king cleared his throat and raised his chin to look down his nose at the assembled Northmen. "As your folk have so long occupied the coast of Neustria and earned deep respect from the people of Rouen, it is clear that you shall not leave. A new generation of your kinsmen have been born to this land, and call no other place home. It is in our mutual interests that we end hostilities of many decades and establish peace. As King of Western Frankia, it is in my purview to offer you a treaty. Provided that Jarl Hrolf the Strider agrees to become my vassal and that he be baptized in the light of Christ Our Lord, then I shall cede all lands and the subjects therein from the Epte River to the coast. This includes the territories of Caux, Talon, Roumois, Evrecin, and Vexin. He shall be named Count of Rouen and rule in my name with my authority."

  Ulfrik's head spun. The offer was tempting. Each year they fought harder but conquered less territory. Peace would be welcomed by many. Becoming a count would set Hrolf above all the petty jarls south of his territory, and in fact bring them into conflict. He did not know how he felt about this choice. Hrolf might be trading peace with the Franks to make enemies of his own kin. Yet the choice was not his to make, and from Hrolf's grin, Ulfrik knew how his jarl had decided.