Sword Brothers

by Jerry Autieri

  His sons surrounded the temporary grave, Gunnar having just arrived with his family the prior night. Runa wrapped herself in a dark cloak and held a fist to her lips as she tried to control her tears. After Ulfrik stood, he kissed her cheek and spoke softly. "We are done for now, so go back to the hall and play with our grandchildren. It will take your mind from this sadness."

  Runa nodded, leaned into Ulfrik's hug, then she joined her women who had waited for her further back from the grave. Yet before she did, she cast a stern glance to Gunnar. She had blamed him for all that had happened with the bishop, and though she had not openly accused Gunnar, in her private moments with Ulfrik she had cursed her son's temper. Gunnar had no expression, as grim as his brothers, and watched his mother go.

  "We have much to discuss," Ulfrik said. "I am tired of the hall. Let's walk while we decide what happens next."

  His sons all nodded and began to fall into line. Ulfrik waved to Finn, who had also stayed back from family matters, toward the hall. He fell in with Runa as they crossed the grass toward the long hall in the distance.

  Ulfrik led them away from the center of the village toward the distant line of trees. Gunnar had shared his news, and Ulfrik had caught him up on the death of Bishop Burchard. The exchange had been all time allowed, but Ulfrik had many questions for his son. Another drop of rain hit his nose, and Ulfrik stopped them before they went too far from the hall.

  "The bishop said he witnessed Father Lambert's missing leg," he said to Gunnar. "Are you certain they didn't have to remove it after he left you?"

  Gunnar growled in frustration. "I told you, we took him to my hall and cared for his wound. If his crazy followers hadn't insisted on carrying him off, he would have been standing again within the week. The wound was nothing, though you couldn't tell for the crying of that priest. I kept it clean, and when he left, he had a fresh dressing. If he lost his leg, it's because his fool followers injured him again."

  "It was probably a lie," Hakon said. He had recovered from his arrow wound, though both cheeks bore deep scars where the shaft had pierced him, and his voice sounded thicker from the wound to his tongue. "The bishop wanted any excuse to act like an ass."

  "I'll agree to that," Ulfrik said. Now he stepped closer to Gunnar and looked him in the eye. "Why did you run? I can think of no reason for you to have fled with your family, not if all was as you say."

  Gunnar's gaze faltered and he looked toward the dark line of trees. Another cold drop struck Ulfrik's cheek as he waited for Gunnar to answer.

  "Father Lambert promised the bishop would bring an army of the faithful with him and they would deliver justice," he said at last. "I did not want to expose my family to danger, so I took them down the Seine, just to keep them safe while I figured what to do next."

  "A nice story, but the truth this time." Ulfrik folded his arms and watched Gunnar struggle to find his words. Both Hakon and Aren shifted uncomfortably at Ulfrik's bluntness.

  "I had a dream that night," Gunnar said, refusing to look at anyone. "I do not put credence into such things normally, but this was the truest dream I ever had. Have you never experienced such a thing?"

  He remembered dreams of the ghosts of his brother-in-law Toki and his old companion Yngvar Bright-Tooth during his imprisonment in Iceland. "I've had a few over the years."

  "Well, then you understand how the fear grips you like death. The next morning I knew I had to go or something terrible would happen. I told no one where I went, for at that time I did not know where I was headed."

  "What did you dream?"

  Gunnar gave him a sideways glance. "I dare not repeat it and give the evil a life outside of my own heart. It's best it stays inside me."

  "Holding evil only gives it more power. Spill it into the light of day and it becomes weak."

  Swallowing hard, Gunnar scanned all of their faces, then described his dream.

  "A black adder had slipped into my hall and bit all my men and servants on their legs. They cried in pain and soon died. With each death the snake grew larger until it was fat around as a man. Then it swallowed my children, then Morgan, but it spared me. I was like a stone, unable to speak or reach for my sword. The serpent coiled about the posts of my hall and tore it down about me. Still, I remained unharmed, but when the walls fell I discovered the whole land was aflame. I know not how I came to your hall, Father, but as one does in dreams I found myself suddenly transported. You stood over mother's sleeping body in your mail and helmet, sword drawn to ward off a warrior made of shadow. His spear pierced the mail over your gut and drove clear through. But rather than cry out in pain, you only laughed. Then I was awake, covered in sweat and my heart pounding. I knew I had seen a terrible omen."

  Ulfrik's chest tightened at the horrible depiction. Aren frowned with horror, and only Hakon had any words for his brother.

  "Surely the gods have sent you a warning. They speak to us in dreams." He searched all of them for agreement, nodding his head. "Remember I had once seen Odin on the night we became lost in battle with the Franks? So, I believe what you say, brother. You did the right thing."

  "You saw Odin?" Aren asked, his eyes widening.

  Gunnar chuckled. "I had forgotten about that. But thank you, for the support. I didn't dare tell Morgan. I don't have to warn you all to keep this a secret."

  "We'll never speak of such ill omens again," Ulfrik said, clapping Gunnar's shoulder. "But I think you were just worried for Father Lambert's threat. At least now I know why you fled."

  "Now what will you do about the bishop's death?" Gunnar asked.

  Ulfrik shrugged. "I will have to present myself to Hrolf. No sense waiting to be summoned like a wayward child."

  "He's a Christian now," Gunnar said. "He's in bed with the Church. Won't he demand your head?"

  "He would not. Christian or no, he is one of us. That bishop came into my hall, shit on my honor, and threatened to ruin me because I couldn't tell him where you were. Perhaps death was a stiff punishment, but he was a weakling unable to take the beating he had earned." Ulfrik paused and scratched his chin. He recognized excuses and his claim sounded hollow even to himself. Snorri's dying words had kindled a fire in him, and the bishop had paid for it. "Among our own kind, I'd pay a blood price if I paid anything at all. For the death of a Christian leader, I'll probably be forced to let them build churches and pay a heavy amount of gold. They'll cry about justice, but gold will silence them. I fear the Christians will have their place in my land after all."

  "I suppose they baited the trap and we bit," Gunnar said.

  "No doubt they wanted us to resist, though I don't think they expected their bishop to die." Ulfrik started back toward the hall and his sons fell in beside him. "But for all I have done for Hrolf these long years, he will treat fairly with me, and with Gunnar. I'm not so headstrong that I can't admit killing their bishop was too much. I'll pay what they ask and give them no trouble. Hrolf will appreciate it, and so we will soon have all of this behind us."

  Gunnar nodded and they walked three more paces before Ulfrik realized neither Hakon nor Aren followed. He turned and found Aren with his arms folded and face scowling.

  "Stepped in horse shit?" Ulfrik asked.

  "I don't like the plan, Father. You are underestimating your enemy and not thinking through the outcome."

  Aren was known for plain speech, but hardly had he dared to be so bold. Ulfrik blinked and laughed uncertainly. "Hrolf is not my enemy."

  "The Church is," Aren said, and Hakon nodded silently beside him. "They are an incredible power in this land, and you are fighting on their ground now. You are locked in battle, but not the kind you understand."

  "Oh well, you will enlighten me then?" Ulfrik felt his face grow warm but clamped down on his words out of respect for his son.

  "If you and Gunnar go alone, then it is the same as offering your neck to an enemy. Gunnar was right to run in fear."

  "What are you saying?" Gunnar said, bristling at Aren. Ulfrik restr
ained him with an outstretched arm.

  "I say what I mean. The Church is a terrible enemy, as black-hearted for revenge as the worst of our people. They will not be content with a token punishment any more than we would be content for the same from the killer of our own father."

  Ulfrik paused at that and Gunnar stepped back. Aren's wide, square face grew red as he pressed his point, but Hakon put an arm on his brother's shoulder to urge him. Aren cleared his throat and continued.

  "You should not go to Hrolf at all, but force him to come to you."

  "Impossible," Ulfrik said, folding his arms. "I will not have to be collected like a lost sheep."

  "But to go alone is to lie down before the Church and surrender. You must take every jarl who opposes the Church. There are many who have no love of Jarl Hrolf's new religion. Without support, the Church will have you alone and then they will do whatever they wish to you. If they have to come here, we can prepare and rally our own support."

  "This sounds too much like a battle plan," Gunnar said, and Ulfrik nodded in agreement.

  "It is," Aren said. "This will be a fight to decide the rest of our lives."

  "Now you are making this into a mountain." Ulfrik wiped his hands as if scrubbing away dirt. "Gunnar and I go to Hrolf, we settle this matter as men, and I pay whatever price he asks. I will even become a Christian if he demands it. I can pray to their god and ours then see who listens."

  Hakon now stepped forward. "Aren is the smartest person any of us have ever met. He is a close friend of Vilhjalmer, who has shown him things none of us have seen. If he is afraid, then it's right to heed his warning."

  Ulfrik rubbed his face. "There's merit to Aren's thinking. But however much he believes he understands Hrolf's court, he does not know how warriors deal with justice. I must go to Hrolf. So what do you suggest, then?"

  Now Aren rubbed his face, unknowingly mimicking his father's reaction to frustration. Yet he kept his face covered while he considered his answer, and they all waited. Ulfrik felt more rain pelting his head and the scent of it filled the air.

  "No one knows Gunnar has returned," Aren said. "So keep it that way. For both of you to go is like putting all your game pieces on the board at once. Your opponent will know your strength and plan to counter it. Gunnar has done the lesser crime, and so he remains in reserve while you test Hrolf's resolve. Whatever is judged for you will be less harsh for him. Then, if things go badly, he can organize a response."

  Aren glanced at Hakon, who nodded along with the plan.

  "You really believe the Church could force Hrolf to take drastic action?" Gunnar asked.

  "I do. Hrolf's future is with the Church, not with us." Aren raised his hand when Ulfrik inhaled to protest. "I'm not dishonoring your legacy, Father. But it is the truth. The Church rules everywhere, and if Hrolf desires to sit upon the throne of Frankia one day, then he must be a good Christian."

  The silence was complete and Ulfrik could not deny the logic. "Wise counsel from one so young. I will consider it."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The grandeur of Hrolf's hold had always impressed Ulfrik. Inside felt larger than it appeared outside, with a high roof supported by posts that climbed away into the dark. His new banner of a yellow lion on a red flag hung from the rafters, its rich colors grayed in the low light of the hall. The long hearth in the center crackled with pulsing orange embers and threw a gentle warmth over him as two hirdmen led him to the back of the hall where Hrolf sat upon his high chair.

  The moment he saw the great man piled into his seat, he realized the judgment of his king would be heavy. Hrolf's dark shape leaned back against the chair and his face was drawn and serious, with shadows that clung like ink to the recesses of his eyes. His posture suggested he wanted to recoil, but the chair had trapped him. Ulfrik stopped short at the sight, and the two hirdmen flanking him took three steps before they also paused.

  Four priests hovered around Hrolf's chair. One he recognized as Hrolf's personal confessor. The other three were dressed in clean robes as black as night and wore heavy silver crosses that winked hearth light, as if sharing some secret message with him. Their faces were plump and soft, men who had never labored beneath the sun or missed their supper, but their brows were creased from a long acquaintance with frowning. None of the dour men had any smiles today, and Ulfrik chilled at seeing them crowding Hrolf. Like a flock of crows on a corpse. The thought came unbidden to his mind, but the comparison was apt.

  One of the hirdmen motioned Ulfrik forward, and they resumed the approach. What had been an admirably spacious hall now seemed like an unreasonably long walk. Hirdmen lined the walls in mail and armed with spears. Yet another sign that caused Ulfrik's guts to burn. His own men had been disarmed and asked to remain outside the hall. While laying aside weapons on Hrolf's property was not unexpected, being refused to accompany their jarl was a strange request.

  When he presented himself to Hrolf, he noticed that at the edge of the hall and garbed in shadow stood both Hrolf's wife, Poppa, and Gunther One-Eye. At least the presence of his old friend relieved some of his tension. However, Gunther had grown old, blind, and distant over the years. Perhaps Mord had turned him as well. He had not time to consider, as he went to his knee before Hrolf.

  "Jarl Hrolf, I have come to you seeking mercy for my rash actions." He kept his head bowed and acted as contrite as he was able. Though he had come to seek forgiveness, he had been careful to wear his dozen gold armbands Hrolf had awarded for his service as a subtle reminder of his value to Hrolf. He glanced up. "I have caused injury to your reputation and mine."

  Hrolf shifted on his throne, the dark wood creaking under his weight. He sighed and motioned Ulfrik to stand. "You have come in good faith, rather than be forced to appear before me. I am grateful for your consideration. You were wise to do so."

  Inclining his head, Ulfrik shifted his gaze toward the priests. "I wish only to put this behind us so that we may continue to enjoy our well-earned peace."

  "As do I," he said, and these were the only words he had spoken that sounded like the Hrolf of old. Thus far, Hrolf's tone was as drawn and reluctant as his posture. "You are facing your accusers this night. Have you brought no witnesses of your own?"

  "Your men prevented them from entering the hall."

  Hrolf sat up straighter and scowled at his priest, who shrugged as if he knew nothing of it. Hrolf snapped at one of the hirdmen beside Ulfrik. "Bring only those who have borne witness, and be quick."

  The priests organized themselves according to what Ulfrik assumed was their rank, the most important being closest to Hrolf. He was an older man with a fringe of white hair to crown a narrow head. He wore a condescending sneer that made Ulfrik dream of slapping it away. The priest behind him murmured words that this leader dismissed with a barely discernible flick of his hand and twitch of his eye. When he did speak, he sounded as if he were exhausted from explaining the same story to a child.

  "You are Ulfrik Ormsson? You are the man who killed holy Bishop Burchard?"

  "Holy Burchard? I remember a haughty fool who didn't behave like a proper man."

  "Ulfrik!" Hrolf's sudden barking of his name made him jump. "Do not mock these good men. There are no challenge insults here. We're not at parley, but at court." Hrolf's comparison to the pre-battle insults thrown about during the parley was precisely correct. Ulfrik was treating this like the cursing out of an enemy before battle and not like a proceeding of justice. He felt his face heat up.

  "Sorry, Jarl Hrolf. I allowed my anger to best me once more."

  "A terrible habit of yours. What served you well in battle serves you less admirably in peace." Hrolf sat straighter in his chair and set both of his ring-laden hands on its arms. "These priests, represented by Father Odger, are here to present their account of your crimes."

  "But they did not witness anything. How can they accuse me?"

  "They are holy men," Hrolf said. "And will swear an oath before God to tell the entire truth as
it was given to them by their witnesses."

  "That's not the law," Ulfrik said, hands balling into fists. "They must produce witnesses to prove the accusation, and I will have men to speak for me. You must judge according to what the witnesses have told you."

  Hrolf slammed his hand on the armrest. "Do not tell me what I must do. A bishop is dead, and you have killed him. Will your witnesses claim otherwise?"

  Ulfrik had so focused on Hrolf and the priests he did not see his men arrive behind him. Ulfrik waved them forward. "Let them tell you. Here is Styr Grimmason. Come, tell them of the bishop's visit."

  Styr was not a tall man, but wide shouldered and muscular. A lump of scar tissue wound across his right forearm, and it showed pink in the light as he balanced with it when he knelt before Hrolf. Motioned to his feet, Styr addressed only Hrolf as Ulfrik had previously instructed him.

  "Jarl Hrolf, the bishop came on Thor's day of a week ago. The hall was closed but the bishop demanded he be allowed inside. Finn Langson told us the bishop should be let in. Once he met with Jarl Ulfrik, he went mad with rage. He threatened to start a revolt, and promised he would get all the Christians in the land to overthrow Jarl Ulfrik. So when Jarl Ulfrik warned him to silence, he just got more insulting. Jarl Ulfrik hit him, and he fell with his nose broken."

  Styr had stopped short of describing Ulfrik's maniacal pounding of the bishop, again as Ulfrik had instructed, and he shrugged as if he had said all he wanted.

  "Was the bishop dead at that time?" Hrolf asked.

  "Maybe he was, Jarl Hrolf. A broken nose bleeds a lot, but the bishop wasn't defending himself and just lying there. So maybe he died in one punch."

  "So it could have been an accident?" Hrolf's voice lifted with hope and Ulfrik swelled with it. Hrolf seemed to be searching for an exploit in the case.

  "I would say so, Jarl Hrolf. He forced himself inside the hall and then threatened to use his power to overthrow my lord. That'd make any man mad enough to jab someone in the nose. Jarl Ulfrik did not set about killing the bishop. It just ended that way."