Sword Brothers (11 page)

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."

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."