Sword Brothers

by Jerry Autieri

  Ulfrik shook his head. His hands were still balled into fists and ached to slam into the bishop's arrogant face, but he restrained himself. "Tell me before my patience reaches its end."

  "Gunnar the Black assaulted one of my priests while performing God's work. Without any provocation, he drew his sword, proclaimed that Father Lambert and all his faithful were vermin to be eradicated, then--again without any reason beyond a sick love of violence--he charged his horse at Father Lambert and hacked his leg off at the hip. He fled the crime, and has not been seen since. His family has left with him as well. Of course, we will find him here."

  Ulfrik's teeth ground and his vision hazed, yet he still managed to force his voice down to a low growl. "Your mind has gone soft, priest. Do you even listen to your own story? Whatever happened to Father Lamb-butt was not the work of my son. For one, he would not ride a horse nor would he charge anyone with the intent to fight from horseback. That's not our way. But more telling is your claim he charged the priest and cut off his leg. If you told me Gunnar hacked off his head, I might believe it. But a leg from the back of a horse? That's not possible. And have you ever cut through a man's leg? It's like claiming to chop down a tree with one blow of the ax. If the tree is small enough, maybe, but otherwise it doesn't happen. A man's thigh bone's just too thick to be hacked off in one blow of a sword. So you'll forgive me if I say your story is built on lies."

  The bishop's eyes widened. "It is no lie that Father Lambert has lost his leg. This I have seen with my own eyes."

  "And the rest of your story was witnessed by others, I assume. So you have but one fact and all else is hearsay. I also have to wonder, what was your priest doing in Gunnar's land? Or do you claim he was just taking a merry stroll when my son charged out of nowhere to cut off his leg?"

  "Father Lambert was making arrangements for the construction of a new church." The bishop held up his palm to forestall Ulfrik. "You know Hrolf has ordered the building of churches throughout his lands."

  "So now we come to the heart of the matter. Your priest was stealing land from Gunnar and no doubt smashing him over the head with Hrolf's authority. I do not even need to ask where the new church would be established. Your greedy rat would have nabbed the best patch of land he could find and demand it be turned over in God's name. No doubt you made a nice survey of my property as you journeyed here, and I can soon expect grubby priests to pay me the same insult as yours did to my son."

  "A priest lost his leg to your son," Father Burchard screamed. He straightened himself and strode right up to Ulfrik. "You are hiding that heathen dog and I will see him brought to justice. Your wild insults and coarse treatment will not be forgotten. The faithful among your people will learn of your transgression and they shall rise up against you."

  "You are threatening me in my own hall?" Ulfrik's hands twitched. His eyes hazed red and Bishop Burchard's sneering face filled his vision. "You want to start a rebellion in my land?"

  "I am a bishop! Appointed to my holy mission by the king himself! You will learn proper respect, you heathen barbarian scum. Your kind are no better than filth to be washed off the soles of my boots!"

  Ulfrik grabbed the bishop's neck with one hand and crushed the breath out of him. The bishop's words became a squeak of surprise and his smug look turned to horror.

  His mind buzzed and he had no other thought than to tear the bishop to pieces. He raised his fist and punched the bishop's nose flat. Bone cracked and blood and snot shot down the front of the bishop's robe. He screamed in agony, but that only made Ulfrik enjoy it more. He slammed his fist home again, driving the bone of the nose deeper into the bishop's head.

  Then the dam broke.

  Ulfrik flung Bishop Burchard to the ground and straddled him. If anyone moved to prevent it, he was unaware. With both fists he smashed the bishop's face over and over, a wet and meaty thump following each strike. His knuckles burned with raw pain from shattering bone, and blood splashed Ulfrik's clothing. He was laughing and beating the lump that had once been a face. At last Runa screamed from behind and he realized he had to stop.

  Beneath him was a flattened mass of red with one eye ball popped out and another smeared into jelly. Smiling teeth showed through torn flesh, but the bishop was not laughing. He was dead.

  Breathing hard, Ulfrik's knuckles throbbed with pain and his hands were slick with blood. He stood and faced down the bishop's horrified followers. One of the priests had fainted and now hung limp against his companions. Ulfrik's hirdmen had lowered their spears and cut off exit from the hall.

  "Fucking bastard," Ulfrik said, nudging Bishop Burchard's corpse with his foot. "Never threaten a man's life in his own home."

  Truth was, Ulfrik felt far worse now that the satisfaction of savaging the bishop had drained away. He was left with a bloody mess to clean up, in his hall, and a far worse mess with Hrolf. Now he would have to pay a blood price and probably build a church over his own hall and dedicate it to this pig priest bleeding all over his floor.

  "We have to kill these witnesses." The voice of his youngest son, Aren, was quiet at his back, yet in the stunned silence one of the bishop's followers cried out at the suggestion.

  He shook his head. "No, there's been enough dying in my hall for one day. Let this not become a place of murder and death. The fool earned this reward for his insult. No one would deny it within my right to punish a man who threatened my life and people in my own hall."

  "The Church will see it differently," Aren said, now louder. "Vilhjalmer tells me their priests are untouchable and that even he, Hrolf's own son, cannot escape their grasp. Revenge will be swift and terrible."

  Ulfrik did not glance back at his family but pointed to the closest of his hirdmen. "March these scum to the borders and send them back to their holes. If one even raises a voice, you've my leave to take his head."

  The bishop's followers huddled together in fear, not comprehending Norse but for one who paled in terror. Ulfrik raised a bloodied fist to them and spoke in Frankish. "You tell your masters the truth of what happened here today. I killed your leader for threatening my life. If I see any of you on my land again, I'll hang you by your feet and use you for target practice, then leave your bodies for the crows. Now be gone and take this corpse from my hall."

  None moved and Ulfrik shouted, "Now!" The bishop's followers gathered up the corpse, wincing in revulsion. None made eye contact with Ulfrik. The hirdmen then prodded them out of the hall with their spears, but before the last left, he called back.

  "This place is accursed of God. You will feel His wrath." Then a hirdmen butted him with the end of his spear and knocked him outside. The cavernous mead hall was empty once more, but with the iron scent of blood hanging in the air.

  He turned to his family, Runa with both hands clasped to her chest in shock, Aren and Hakon both standing ready for their father's next command.

  "Have a servant clean the blood. I want this place back to normal once Einar arrives. I will prepare for Snorri's funeral. His was the life lost that truly mattered today. Let us not forget."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mord glanced at his father, Gunther One-Eye, who sat by the hearth fire with his good eye closed as if listening to distant, unheard music. He wished his father would allow a hint of his thoughts. Hrolf sat on his high throne, built for his giant size and carved with dragons and strange beasts called lions. His thoughts were as easy to read as runes carved in stone. He held his head in both hands and leaned on his knees. His jeweled fingers sparkled in the firelight. No one dared speak, not even the three representatives the archbishop had sent from Rouen. Hrolf was known for his good humor and social graces, but was also famous for a deadly anger. Mord had once witnessed him snap a man's neck with his bare hands in a fit of rage. The poor victim had likely died without knowing what he had done to give offense. Hrolf was in a similar mood now.

  They had gathered at Hrolf's mead hall outside of Rouen. Though now a Frankish count and a Christian, he still
preferred to live as he always had and handle affairs from his hall. The enormous throne was his sole concession to his new role, and Mord thought it out of place. Behind the throne his wife, Poppa, hovered and gave apologetic glances to the three holy men. While Mord had long ago become a Christian at the insistence of his wife, he did not understand the Christian ranking system. He figured the larger the cross the more important the priest, and these three men wore silver crucifixes the size of a big man's hand over their clean black robes. These priests were clearly important.

  Hrolf groaned and rubbed his face, sitting back at last and staring at the three priests. He thrummed his fingers on the arm of the chair as he considered. Hirdmen clung to the shadows, Mord barely aware of them but for the errant gleam of mail in the hearth light. His heart continued to pound. This was the night he had long awaited, a night his father had predicted over a year ago. All it had taken was one firebrand bishop and Ulfrik had done the rest.

  "I must think upon all you have told me," Hrolf said to the priests. His voice echoed in the silent hall. "There are two matters at hand, and each must be judged according to the crime."

  The three priests looked at each other, but their leader smiled as if he were indulging a trite story from a favorite nephew. He was the oldest, with a fringe of white hair surrounding a brown-spotted head. "It would be best to handle the matter in one decision, Count Rollo."

  Rollo was Hrolf's new name, taken the day he was baptized a Christian. Mord thought it a fitting name, though his father hated it.

  "What is best and what is just are not always the same," Hrolf sat straighter in his chair and his eye twitched. Mord knew Hrolf's anger risked spilling over, but the Church was a terrible enemy and had to be handled with deft care. "I will hear the accounts of my men, and not judge them otherwise. If Father Lambert is well enough, he should provide his own account. Only then can I make a fair judgment."

  "Count Rollo, our witnesses can attest to the murder of Bishop Burchard and the maiming of Father Lambert. Ulfrik Ormsson and Gunnar the Black's hostility toward Christianity is well known. Their crimes against God must be judged in the harshest possible light. It is the position of Archbishop Franco that these criminals be publicly executed as both an example of God's justice and your authority."

  "My authority is unquestioned! Let your God make his own justice."

  The priests hissed at Hrolf's blasphemy, but he sank back into his throne and ignored everyone. The room again fell into silence and finally the lead priest inclined his head to Hrolf.

  "We will leave you to your thoughts, if it pleases you, Count Rollo."

  "It does please me," he said, then shook his head and adopted a more pleasant demeanor. "I will have you escorted to the church where my Confessor will arrange your lodging. Tonight I shall give you a welcome feast. Forgive my manners, for it is grave news you bring and I have been a poor host for hearing it."

  The lead priest again bowed, then turned away. As he did, his eyes met Mord's and they shared a knowing look. All three filed out and the hall remained in tense silence. Mord's heart beat faster, for now it was up to him to carry home the final blow. He glanced yet again at his father who remained contemplative and silent, still listening to his inaudible song.

  "You must do as they ask." The words were subdued but firm. Poppa, Hrolf's wife, was the only one bold enough to break into his thoughts. Many men beat their wives. Mord did without hesitation. But Poppa had long ago tamed Hrolf, and if he raised a hand to her it was never witnessed by any.

  "They cannot command me in my own hall." The words lacked the fire of only a moment ago. Mord again found his eyes straying to his father and again received no sign.

  "Burchard was my cousin. You must deliver justice, for family if not for the Church."

  "I know it, woman, and I shall."

  "But it must be equal to the crime of murder."

  Hrolf hung his head again, and Poppa, still melded with the shadow, lowered hers as well. She gave Mord a knowing look and then shifted to Gunther One-Eye. A small smile pierced the gloom clinging to her. "Mord is here not just to witness. Of course, he is here because you need a man capable of restoring the Church's belief in you. Mord has been a good friend of the Church. He has built churches and gives freely of his wealth to those in need. His wife's family is connected to Paris. He could heal the wound your wild jarl has made."

  "Enough of your meddling," he said in a voice more tired than commanding. "I know what needs to be done. But I will not hear it from you. Thank you for soothing the priests, but your presence is not needed. Go back to your idle cares, and let me do the work of ruling over this mess."

  Poppa said nothing more, but her shadowy form turned and three women followed her out of the hall to the solitude of her chambers beyond. Hrolf did not face her but instead stared at Mord, hand covering his mouth.

  "You're arrival here was convenient," Hrolf said. "You've nothing to do with this?"

  "You heard the priests, Jarl Hrolf. Ulfrik and Gunnar have committed their own crimes without any aid from me." Mord's heart flopped. He was truthful to an extent, but once his father had learned of Burchard's relation to Poppa and his temperament, both Mord and Gunther had guided the bishop towards his inevitable clash. Ulfrik had just surpassed their expectations in his response.

  "So you are to be my peacemaker with the church?"

  "If you wish it so." Mord stood from his bench at the side of the hall and went to his knee before Hrolf. "I live only to serve you as well as my father did before me."

  Hrolf rubbed his face and moaned. Falling back in his chair he stared at Mord as he remained on his knee. "All right, get up. You've thrown your lot in with the Church. A wise choice in these new times."

  Standing as instructed, he again stole a look at his father and his impatience burned. Why was the old man not helping? This was the moment all their patience and plotting had earned them. Had he finally gone soft?

  "You've been silent, old man." Hrolf stood from his throne and approached the hearth where Gunther sat in rapturous quiet. "If you have counsel, I'd hear it now. Otherwise, find another hearth to warm your old bones."

  Gunther laughed, but Mord wondered if Hrolf's words were not as playful as they sounded. He watched his father scratch his beard and appear to dig deep into his thoughts. Of course he would support Mord for the role and counsel Ulfrik's and Gunnar's deaths.

  "You cannot bow to these priests. Ulfrik has served loyally and we have not heard his statement nor that of other witnesses. What will your men think if you reward your greatest supporter with death?"

  Mord's mouth fell open and he was grateful Hrolf's back was turned and his father blind. He schooled his expression, but his hands clenched in rage. The old man had gone soft after all.

  "Of course you're right," Hrolf said, his voice brightening. "I will not allow priests to dictate to me. If Archbishop Franco has a command, then let him come out of his golden halls and command me to my face. I'll hear it from him and no other."

  Gunther grunted agreement, and Mord cleared his throat. Hrolf turned with a raised brow and suddenly he regretted calling attention to himself.

  "They do not work like that, my lord. The archbishops are even greater than the counts, and their commands are laws that--"

  "You speak out of turn, like a boy that has not grown up. Yet you want to be entrusted with some of the richest lands in my territory?"

  Mord's face burned and he fell silent, stepping back. The scar of his father's destroyed eye twitched, a sign of his anger, but otherwise he said nothing.

  Hrolf turned away and clasped his hands at his back. He paced beside the hearth in thought. "I will hear Ulfrik's words. I still must issue some punishment. But death?"

  "Death is too great a demand," Gunther said. Now, with Hrolf's back to both of them, he faced Mord and offered a brief smile. "You must fight the Church on this, even if we need break our truce and take to the battlefield once more. If a thousand men must die to
show the Church we are not dogs to be brought to heel, then so be it. Perhaps the Norns never intended anything else but war for our people."

  Hrolf stopped pacing and remained still. Gunther closed his milky white eye again and returned to his dreamy silence. Mord's chest filled with warmth at his father's skill. He could see the debate raging in Hrolf's heart as the giant Count of Rouen stood still. When he renewed his pacing, his step was heavier.

  "Perhaps I do not have a choice." Hrolf's voice was small and tentative. "There is more to consider than my own pride. A day may come to war with the Franks again, but it is not today."

  Neither Mord nor Gunther spoke, but let Hrolf pace in silence. By the time he had rounded the hearth and now stood again before Gunther, his face was drawn and tired, as if he had scaled a mountain.

  "I will hear Ulfrik's story." He spoke to no one, his eyes unfocused on the far wall. "Then give my judgment."

  He exited the hall as if carrying an anvil on his back. The front doors opened to reveal the yellow light of day, and then slammed shut. Mord stared at his father who remained seated with eye closed. But a wide smile formed on his face.

  Mord smiled as well. He realized what his father knew. Hrolf would give his judgment and it would be death.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ulfrik looked to the dark gray sky and felt a pinpoint of cold rain strike his cheek. He turned his gaze back toward Snorri's temporary grave, a wide oval of brown earth in green grass. Two slaves, young Irishmen who barely spoke any Norse, patted the earth flat with their shovels. They were stripped to the waist and heads shaved clean, making them appear like twins.

  "Enough," Ulfrik said to them, and though the slaves understood little Norse, they were smart enough lay their shoves aside and back away. Ulfrik knelt by the grave and touched the damp, freshly turned earth. "You will be buried with great honor, old friend. I will have new clothes and a fine sword made for you. You will be the envy of Freya's hall."