Sword Brothers (10 page)

"You have my word." Snorri nodded and closed his eyes again. Ulfrik glanced at Runa and his sons, who returned a grave stare. Snorri rested in silence, and when Ulfrik prepared to allow his friend rest, Snorri again opened his eyes.

His spotted, blue-veined hand grabbed the sword lying over his body. "I am seventy years old?"

A smile came to Ulfrik's face. "So I have counted. You're the oldest person I've ever known."

Snorri stared at something only his eyes could discern and smiled. "It was all good. I only wish it hadn't been so short."

Ulfrik's throat seized up and tears stung his eyes. Snorri no longer saw him, and his breathing grew more shallow. Runa began to sob quietly at his back. He firmly pressed both of Snorri's hands on the hilt of the sword laid across his body.

"It was too short, old friend. You were as a father to me." The lump in his throat made his voice break and he could speak no more. He did not want to mar Snorri's final moments with unmanly tears.

"And you were as a son. My last wish for you, lad, is don't die like me. I was a warrior." He paused to wheeze and cough. His eyes still looked at another world. "I should not die in bed. Neither should you. Die on the battlefield with a sword in hand and a foeman's blood on your face. That is how a great warrior dies. Not coughing his final breaths on a bed."

"A sword is in your grip now," Ulfrik said, patting Snorri's burning hands. "You will join the heroes in Odin's feasting hall. I shall see you there."

"No, I am too old for Odin to take me. I will go to Freya's hall, and see my wife. Dear Gerdie, she has waited so long. Odin will want you at his table. We shall not meet again."

Snorri lapsed into silence and his breathing grew more strained. Ulfrik watched his face twitch and twist as he dreamed. Time stretched on as Ulfrik and his family kept a tense vigil.

Then his lips moved in his final whisper. "Tell Einar his mother and I are so proud of him."

His breathing stopped and Ulfrik put his ear to Snorri's chest. When he heard nothing, tears filled his eyes and he sat up with his fists clenched.

"Good-bye, Snorri. You were the last of the old breed, a great warrior, and greater friend. Your name shall not be forgotten."

The tears streamed freely, and he was glad no one but his family witnessed his shame. Runa's hands embraced him from behind and he folded his arm over hers. She had loved Snorri as much as he did, perhaps even more. His passing made a hole in Ulfrik's heart from which the tears flowed. In time he would fix the hole, but with Snorri's shrunken, pale body lying on his bed, he could not imagine when that would be.

A knock on the door shook him. Immediately his stomach burned and his teeth clenched. "Whatever it is, go away."

Rather than hearing the intruder leave, the door opened. Ulfrik was ready to explode with anger, but Finn poked his head inside. His freckled face turned red as he quickly surveyed the scene.

"I am so sorry, but there is a bishop in the hall and he is like a mad dog."

The words made no sense to Ulfrik. He hadn't invited any of the Church, and a bishop was too important a visitor to not have been announced earlier. "What is a bishop doing in my hall?"

"It's about Gunnar. The bishop says he attacked a priest and cut off his leg. He can't find Gunnar and says you're hiding him. I think the bishop wants his head."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bishop Burchard was taller than Ulfrik expected. He was also younger, with his close-cropped black hair only streaked with gray. Ulfrik did not believe a bishop could be anyone other than the most ancient priests the Christians could find. Yet standing at the center of his hall, hands upon his hips, was a bishop no older than himself. The similarity ended there, for Bishop Burchard had a frail frame and a long, tired face that was clean-shaved and soft. The bishop had spent little time outdoors and certainly never worked at anything harder than counting his gold. His eyes were ringed with dark circles as if he had not slept in days, and his drooping nose and sagging chin made it seem as if his face would slide off his head.

Ulfrik had dried his eyes, though his nose was still filled and his joints still weak with the crushing sadness of Snorri's death. Yet it all burned away at the sight of Bishop Burchard with his coterie of priests and wormy laymen lined behind him as if hiding from storm winds. A dozen of his own men lined the walls and all carried spears and shields, an intimidating display to anyone who didn't believe their god made them invulnerable, as the more ardent Christians maintained.

Finn gestured to the bishop, "Here is my Jarl Ulfrik Ormsson. On your knee, priest."

The bishop put his hand to the large wooden cross that hung over his simple brown traveling robes. His nose curled as if manure had been shoved beneath it. "I kneel before God Almighty and my king, not a heathen murderer."

"So much for peaceful relations," Ulfrik said. Hrolf had admonished all of his men to embrace Christianity, and for those who did not, to be tolerant and kind to those who did. He had ensured the Christians and their priests only sought peaceful relations, which Ulfrik considered one of the greatest lies Hrolf had ever told.

"Yes, how quickly peace is forgotten along with your new duties and obligations," the bishop said. He sniffed and looked past Ulfrik at Aren and Hakon who had followed him into the hall. "So where is he, this Gunnar the Black? No doubt he hides behind you in that room. I demand he be turned over to me."

Ulfrik folded his arms. "Make one more demand of me and you'll only be asking for help finding your broken teeth. Your authority ends at the borders of my lands. Now why are you searching for my son?"

Bishop Burchard narrowed his eyes at Ulfrik and the sycophants huddling behind him pumped up their indignation, but the bishop wisely checked whatever challenge he was considering. Instead, he folded one hand beneath his elbow while his finger tapped the side of his face. "Well, you truly have not heard?"

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.