Sword Brothers

by Jerry Autieri

  "Hail, Fulbert," Aren said to the guard cleaning his nails. The man did not stir, but only raised one eye to regard Aren. He went back to cleaning his nails when he saw Aren.

  "Haven't seen your ugly face in a while," Fulbert said. The other guard and his girl glanced at him, but decided he was not worth their attention. Aren was glad for it.

  "Always a pleasure to see you, too." Aren approached Fulbert, who seemed lost in ill-fitting mail that swallowed up his thin body. His helmet sat on the ground beside his spear. "I've a message."

  Fulbert's eye raised again, but then flicked to his hand. Aren withdrew half a gold coin from his pouch and pressed it into his palm.

  "Tell him that I've got a redhead from Ireland this time. Everything he's ever wanted and more. I'm at the usual place." Now Aren extended his hand to Fulbert, who snatched away the palmed gold coin before his companions noticed.

  "Redhead from Ireland?" he asked as the half coin disappeared into his cloak. "Big tits?"

  "Like melons." Aren winked and Fulbert smiled.

  "Wish I was a rich prince to have someone find me a girl like that."

  "Save your coins, Fulbert, and one day it may be so. Send him quickly. The girl can't wait long."

  Fulbert laughed, which devolved into a choking cough. Aren left to find the tavern where they started their meetings. Again, no one had heard of his banishment yet so old acquaintances were glad to accept his gold and make the arrangements they had come to expect when he showed up. He expected at least two or three hours waiting, but was shocked when the doors opened to the large room where only one other man drank in sullen silence. Vilhjalmer and his personal escort entered.

  He disguised himself in simple clothes, though his armored escort was a give-away to his importance. Vilhjalmer had his mother's eyes and his father's winning smile. Not as tall as his father, but every inch as royal and proud in his bearing, Vilhjalmer could never disguise his nobility even in drab clothes and a plain wool cloak. He strode across the dirt floor of the tavern, arms wide to greet Aren.

  "A redhead from Ireland, with tits like melons? My dear friend, you know how to capture my attention."

  They embraced and Vilhjalmer patted him on the back, then looked around for the girl.

  "There is no girl this time. I have urgent news and we must speak in private."

  Vilhjalmer's brilliant smile faded and he stepped back, his brow furrowed. "I dislike this serious tone. I've enough of that from the priests and nobles polluting this city." He studied Aren's face, then turned to his escort. "Clear this room and block the door. Wait for me outside."

  The armored guard glared at the owner, who ducked away into a back room as he hustled a serving girl away with him. The other drunken patron protested when the guard lifted him by his shirt and dragged him to the door. He flew outside and the guard followed. The door slammed shut and Vilhjalmer gestured they should sit at one of the dozen tables in the room. Aren had already paid for a jar of ale and poured two mugs.

  "What have you heard of my father?"

  "Nothing recent. He is a popular man, but we find other people to talk about, believe it or not."

  Aren fortified himself with a slug of the sour ale. Vilhjalmer did as well, and both grimaced as they set their mugs aside. "Pure goat piss," Vilhjalmer said. "But it's the taste of some great memories we've had here. You sure about that Irish girl?"

  "This is no idle jest. My father killed a bishop, Burchard was his name. Your mother's cousin. Against my counsel my father went to your father to present his case, and now he has been declared outlaw and banished. As were all of his sons. So you are treating with a bandit now."

  He laughed at referring to himself as a bandit, but Vilhjalmer sat back in shock, eyes wide and mouth agape. "My ears must be blocked. I don't believe I heard you correctly."

  "You've heard it rightly, but let me tell you all of it." Aren leaned on his elbows on the table and proceed to reel out the story of the past week, leaving out no detail. By the end, Vilhjalmer had his head in his hands.

  "Do you think Gunnar will find Father Lambert?" Vilhjalmer asked hopefully. "You might think it a stupid idea, but it has merit. If it can be shown the witnesses were false, my father could dismiss the crime."

  "My eldest brother is ruled by his temper and his lusts. Whatever good he may do in finding Lambert he will ruin with some other rash action. That has always been his way. So I've come to you for help instead."

  "You want me to help?" Vilhjalmer sat up, his head tilted to the side like a puppy trying to understand a new command. "How could I do that?"

  "For starters, my father's situation is being kept secret until the sentence is carried out. So if others learn of what has happened, we might gain support for my father that could alter Hrolf's decision. Otherwise, you could use your influence with your father to get him to deal less harshly."

  "You want me to go against the Church? Have you gone mad?" Vilhjalmer poured another mug of ale and guzzled it. Aren waited, hands folded neatly before him. Vilhjalmer, for all his swagger, feared his father, and Aren knew this request taxed his friend's courage.

  "This is a favor that will place me and Ulfrik in your debt. Stop thinking about the wrath of your father or the anger of a few old priests. Both can be consoled with other concessions. But think of what you will gain? You know my father would do most anything you ask of him, but with a debt such as this he would do even more. Then my brothers and I will owe you as well. Such favors are always useful to own."

  He saw the wheels turning behind Vilhjalmer's eyes, and he grew distant, touching the back of his fist to his mouth as he considered. "Actually, your father rescued me from the Franks. If anything, this would just balance the scales. Yet I understand what you are suggesting, but I won't do it for that reason."

  "But you will do it?"

  "I'll do it for friendship," he smiled at Aren. "And because we need men like you and your father to keep our new lands strong. Your father's a master of battle. Why let that go, or worse yet, become an enemy? You are the cleverest bastard I'm ever likely to meet, and I need you around when I succeed my father one day."

  Aren sat back in relief, tension flushing from his body. He laughed, then raised his mug to toast Vilhjalmer. "I swear I will find you that red-haired Irish girl."

  "Save her for yourself. I've no trouble finding a woman when I need one. But you, well, if you can catch one I suggest holding onto her."

  They laughed and drank deep from their mugs, then fell into thoughtful silence. Vilhjalmer opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. Aren allowed him to struggle until he found his words.

  "The Church is all-powerful. Like you, I believe they wanted to start a conflict so they could grab land Ulfrik and Gunnar were not willing to grant. But if they want your father to hang, then I lack power to oppose them. I think my father believes he has already done the best he can in this situation. Maybe he has. I will try to do more. But I cannot promise you I will change anything."

  "I am only asking that you try. My father is being held hostage until his men are all cleared away. Hrolf has set no definite time for this, which to me means he's delaying until someone can rescue the situation. I believe you are that person. You are a man now, so use your say as a man to sway your father."

  Vilhjalmer narrowed his eyes as if in challenge to some unseen threat. "I am tired of being a pawn. Everyone wants to control me because I'm the future of Normandy. Even men I thought were friends turned out to be no more than leeches. I'm done with that."

  "A wise choice," Aren said. He had never heard Vilhjalmer openly voice such thoughts, but he guessed being Hrolf's only son would bring such pressures.

  "Do you know Harald Finehair took over his father's kingdom at age ten, and he still rules today?" Vilhjalmer folded his arms across his chest. "I'm eight years older than that, and I've only been in a shield wall once. And only against a cowardly foe that ran away. It's time things change."

  "Are you saying you will
replace your father?"

  "No! I just need to stop being manipulated by priests and shoved at ugly daughters of Frankish nobles. I need to be my own ruler, and I'll start today."Aren laughed. "Well, here you are holding a secret meeting with an outlaw in a cheap tavern, plotting to undermine your father's command."

  "Ha! I hadn't thought of it that way." Vilhjalmer slapped the table with his open palm.

  Then, as if listening at the door for a cue, a man burst into the room followed by three others. They were armored, wearing helmets and carrying sheathed swords. The first was a strong man with frizzy hair and beard spilling out beneath his dented helmet. His eyes skipped past Vilhjalmer and landed on Aren.

  "Aren Ulfrikson, you are banished from Normandy. What are you doing here?"

  Aren's heart flipped in his chest. His legs tensed to run, but he sat frozen in terror. The three other men fanned into the tavern, Vilhjalmer's guard protesting behind them.

  Vilhjalmer's face blanched and he turned to Aren. "Oh, and my father's men have come to collect me home today. I had forgotten about that."

  The four guards did not draw their weapons, but they spread in an arc around Aren's table. They widened their stances, ready to pounce.

  "Take him alive," said the leader.

  Aren blinked and saw all his hopes vanish as the men drew closer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  "Wait!" Vilhjalmer shouted.

  The four guards halted and Aren jolted in shock. In the pause, he searched for an escape but found no other way out of the tavern besides the door. He assumed the back room would have another exit, but knew he'd never reach it before being caught. His mind ran over half a dozen ideas, none of them plausible and all requiring him to possess strength he lacked.

  The guards did not relax their posture, but did not move closer. Vilhjalmer stood to his full, regal bearing and sneered down at Aren.

  "I can't believe you thought to trap me with your lies. You were my friend, and I have been deceived. This is most awful. Possibly dreadful." He shook his head and slapped his hand to his cheek. "How can I face life knowing even you would betray me?"

  Despite the terror of being seized by these brutish men, Aren had to stifle a smile at Vilhjalmer's overacting. Impressed with Vilhjalmer's quick wits, he played along, slumping in his chair.

  "It is for my father that I do this. It is only through your vile luck that you have been saved."

  The four guards straightened from their crouches, the frizzy-haired leader pushing up his helmet to scratch his head. He waved Aren up from his chair. "Well, you're right about that. You're to come with us."

  "Be careful with him," Vilhjalmer said, as if they were about to grab a venomous snake. "Remember his father. The whole clan are full of rotten tricks. I bet this one is planning to kick you right in the stones, then he'll gouge this one's eyes, and be out the door before you two can do anything about it. Are you certain you know what you're doing?"

  The four guards looked at each other. "Um, well, I don't think that will happen, Lord," said the leader. He grabbed Aren by the arm and led him between another guard. "We can handle one unarmed man."

  "Of course you can." Vilhjalmer clapped his hands together. "I'm just glad you got here in time. How lucky am I that you happened along to my secret meeting place where you knew my life would be in danger from this outlaw that you called by name the moment you entered. Fate really is something!"

  Aren pressed his lips together to avoid laughing. The second guard grabbed Aren's other arm, and both held him in a grip a child could escape. All four guards were overwhelmed by Vilhjalmer's verbal barrage.

  "Well, we heard that this one might have tried to contact you. So we thought you might be in danger."

  "Of course I would be in danger. Ulfrik's entire family has gone mad with killing lust, stabbing people without cause. If I had only known, I'd have never come out here. Who should I thank for warning you about this threat? And I won't overlook the four of you when I speak to my father of this."

  The leader tilted his head back and smiled. "Thank you, Lord. You owe your safety to Gunther One-Eye. He told us that one of Ulfrik's sons might try to use you as a hostage against Jarl Hrolf and that we should protect you."

  "That's not a bad idea," Vilhjalmer said, surprising Aren by looking at him when he spoke. "Though I doubt it would have succeeded. How did you come here so quickly?"

  "A man named Fulbert," added a second guard. He seemed eager to add himself to the glory he imagined forthcoming. "We can't draw our swords in the city, but I showed what I might do with a sheathed one. Told us right away where you'd be."

  "Well, normally that would anger me," Vilhjalmer tucked in his chin in a mock frown. "But since it saved my life, I shall forgive him. Now let's get this tricky bastard out of this hole."

  The guards tugged Aren, and he acquiesced to their direction. They led him through the door, then held him surrounded as Vilhjalmer strolled out last. As the leader began to tug him into the rutted dirt track that passed as a street, Aren scanned the area for the best escape route. He could outrun four men in armor, but once caught again he would not escape. He'd have to hide and hope to return to his own escorts without being caught. While he had taken them for safety on the overland journey, he had not expected to need them once in Rouen. He promised himself to never underestimate the potential for bad luck again. His best bets were to keep to alleyways and find a wagon or barrel to conceal himself until the threat passed.

  "Before you take him away, let me give him a something to remember me by." Vilhjalmer stepped in front of Aren and drew his dagger, smiling. If Aren did not know better, Vilhjalmer seemed eager for blood. "One of you hold him still for me."

  The frizzy-haired leader gathered both of Aren's arms behind his back. Vilhjalmer put the cold dagger blade to Aren's cheek and drew closer. "I'd say we both learned a few important things from this."

  Vilhjalmer drew the knife back and gave Aren a solemn nod, then spoke louder. "I'm going to drive this right into your eye."

  "Um, Lord, be careful not to kill him," said the guard holding Aren. For an instant, Aren felt bad for the man.

  "I don't think I will," he said with a smile.

  He thrust at Aren's head and he leaned away as if dodging the strike. In fact, Vilhjalmer's dagger went wide and plunged into the biceps of the frizzy-haired guard. The scream shattered Aren's ear and he was suddenly free. Vilhjalmer fell forward onto the guard, shouting panicked apologies. The other three stood staring in shock, while Vilhjalmer's own guard laughed.

  Aren darted away. Vilhjalmer crowded them, shouting. "By the gods, I'm sorry! He just twisted away at the last moment."

  He was laughing even as his heart pounded in terror. The alley he had spied earlier was dark and narrow, filled with trash that he leapt with ease. Behind he heard angry shouting, but as he emerged from the opposite end of the alley, their voices were already distant. This street was busier, filled with men streaming both ways from the docks. Horses plodded along with wagons filled with barrels. Porters carried sacks of goods, and knots of grungy fishermen clustered at the sides of the road. Aren's only distinction was his clean clothing. He threw away his cloak and slipped into the crowd.

  Looking back, he saw no one in pursuit. His violent push drew more attention than he wanted, and one burly porter slammed him aside with his girth, cursing him for a fool. He slowed down, wiping the sweat from his brow and stepping into the shade of a building that stunk of urine and fish. The afternoon sun was sinking and the city gates would close. If he could get back to the docks, then he could get the ship launched before being found.

  His pounding heart finally calmed as he swam against the flow of late afternoon workers and returned to the river dock. By now he was strolling as if in a fine mood. He had secured Vilhjalmer's help and confirmed what he had long suspected about Gunther One-Eye. Convincing his father to accept this betrayal might be the harder part of rooting out Gunther's evil. Ulfrik was not
oriously loyal to his friends, as his naively presenting himself to Hrolf's judgment proved.

  At the dock where he had left the ship, he found Gils and the other two guards standing idly with their packs at their feet. They stood on the dock itself which was now empty of the merchant ship. He noted how they strained too hard to appear as if not searching the crowd for him. Gils appeared more nervous than the others. Aren considered leaving and contacting them after dark, but he suspected they did not have that much time left. He wandered over to them, and when Gils noticed him he only inclined his head.

  "You lost your cloak," he said.

  "The least of my worries now." Aren stood beside them, scanning around for what had unsettled his guards. There were dock patrols, but these were common soldiers more interested in kickbacks and finding shade for relaxation. A different set of Norse warrior in chain shirts had spread out into the docks and appeared to be straining to watch laborers and crews at work. "Where's the ship?"

  "After you left, men from Hrolf the Strider announced to the docks that sons of Ulfrik Ormsson were fugitives from Hrolf's justice and that they might be seeking passage to Rouen. Anyone aiding them would be judged guilty as well. So our weak-bellied merchant decided his business could not afford to be ruined, and ordered us off the ship and left."

  "But I paid him good gold." Aren winced at how childish his words sounded. "That bastard's promise is worth nothing. If ever I find him on this river again, I'll take my gold back before I have his head mounted on a spear."