Sword Brothers (13 page)

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."

Hrolf relaxed in his chair and Ulfrik felt the tension drain from his chest. The three priests and Hrolf's confessor in turn stood taller and their lips were drawn thinner. They appeared to be restraining themselves from speaking out of turn, as the rear-most priest held the back of his hand over his mouth.

"Do you have others who would swear to Styr's account?" Hrolf asked.

"Any of my men will tell you the same account." Ulfrik again turned to the six other of his men allowed inside. All of them had an opportunity to speak and confirm the same story. Once all had finished, Hrolf dismissed them and they were led away. Ulfrik shared a hopeful smile with Styr, and believed his men had rescued the situation. At the worst, he had committed a terrible accident but could not be accused of murder.

"Now for our statement, Count Rollo?" Father Odger asked, his lofty smile reborn. Hrolf waved the priest forward and Father Odger stepped before Ulfrik.

"I do swear before almighty God, His son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit, that I will faithfully convey all that was told to me by our witnesses." The priest placed one hand upon his silver cross as he did so. When no one questioned this, he listed off seven names of witnesses that meant nothing to Ulfrik. He did not know why these men and women could not be present, but it did not matter since Hrolf allowed Father Odger to speak for them.

"I will save us the details, for they vary little from what your witnesses have stated. I will note several facts that vary from the statements of your witnesses. First, I will remind Jarl Hrolf that while Bishop Burchard might have been zealous in his demands to access Jarl Ulfrik's hall, he was in fact invited inside. He did not invade the hall, as Jarl Ulfrik would like you to believe. Also, Bishop Burchard was seeking Gunnar the Black, who had maimed a priest in yet another conflict over the building of a church. We believe Jarl Ulfrik to harbor him, for who else but a father would share in the crime to protect him?"

"Why was the bishop searching for Gunnar and not Hrolf's warriors?" Ulfrik asked, cutting off the priest. "The bishop wanted me to strike him. That's why he acted like an ass."

The priests shouted protests and crowded Hrolf's chair. Father Odger scowled at Ulfrik, who smiled back at him. Strangely, Ulfrik noticed Hrolf's wife, Poppa, step forward as if to join the opposition. Ulfrik lingered on her, but she retreated to the shadow where Gunther One-Eye held her arm.

"Enough!" Hrolf roared, and the priests recoiled. "Ulfrik asks a good question. I had not considered this myself, but now I wish to know the same thing."

Father Odger stared levelly at Hrolf, like a father deciding the punishment for his unruly son. Ulfrik burned at the thought of these priests having any control over his great jarl, but remained quiet.

"If your son were injured, would you not go yourself to confront the man who had dealt him the wound?" Father Odger spread his hands and Hrolf's face softened at the question, then he nodded. "Of course you would, and so did Bishop Burchard. He was a passionate man, and loved all his followers like his own children. Now, if there have been enough distractions, allow me to make my final point."

He paused then returned a predatory smile to Ulfrik, who suddenly felt as if the priest had grown three feet taller. Panic fluttered in his chest, much like the pangs of doubt and fear before shield walls collided. Yet just like the moments before battle, Ulfrik braced himself and faced his accusers.

"After you struck Bishop Burchard out of impulse, you fell upon him and continued to beat him in the face. You did not stop, but continued to punch him until you tore the flesh of your knuckles on the exposed bones of the good bishop's face. Only until your wife called you to your sense did you cease. That is not an accidental jab in the nose, as your witnesses so carelessly described, but the actions of an enraged murderer. The punishment inflicted on Bishop Burchard far outstrips his improprieties. At best you should have ejected the bishop from your hall if his words displeased you. Instead, you brutally murdered him."

Now Ulfrik understood Aren's warning all too clearly. The hall hung in silence with the four priests glaring down at him and Hrolf brooding upon his throne. He was alone at sea and surrounded by sharks. The best he could do was grab an oar and beat back the sharks.

"Jarl Hrolf, I have served faithfully for many years. I struggled to return to your side when I was lost in Iceland. I protected you in battle and earned glory for your name. I cannot deny I made a grievous mistake in killing the bishop. I did not intend it. He enraged me and not moments after the death of my oldest and dearest friend, a man I might as well call my father. Please consider this in your judgment."

Hrolf ran both of his jeweled hands through the gray hair at his temples and avoided meeting anyone's eyes. Father Odger pointed at Ulfrik while Hrolf remained lost in his thoughts.

"Archbishop Franco has made his will clear. Ulfrik Ormsson is responsible for the murder of Bishop Burchard, a terrible loss for the Church and the good people of Normandy. As God teaches us, 'Whoever strikes a man so that he dies shall be put to death.' Ulfrik Ormsson cannot escape this sentence. By order of the Archbishop Franco of Rouen, I demand the execution of Ulfrik Ormsson."

Though Ulfrik had expected such nonsense, now in the shadowy silent hall with none but priests surrounding him, the threat seemed entirely plausible. He faced Hrolf, and Hrolf returned his stare. He slumped in his chair, eyes vacant and wet.

"Jarl Hrolf?" Ulfrik asked in a small voice. "You can't agree with this?"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ulfrik stared at Hrolf, waiting for his decision. The hall held its breath, everyone waiting for a sign from the great jarl. Hrolf shifted on his seat, eyes scanning the distance like he would before a great battle. Ulfrik could not count the times he had seen that expression upon Hrolf's face, but now it was a shade more desperate. Years ago when the Franks had surrounded them outside of Paris and destruction seemed imminent, Hrolf still did not appear as unnerved as he was at this moment. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face and he swatted at it as if it were a fly.

At last he stirred, and his face was set in grim determination. He stood to his full height, making every man in the hall look up at him.

"Ulfrik Ormsson, the crime you have done has grieved me worse than you can imagine. Do you understand what you have done?"

Bowing his head, Ulfrik spoke softly. "I have stained your honor as well as my own."

Hrolf roared in frustration and the four priests surrounding him leapt in surprise. Ulfrik's own heart leapt at the outburst. "Gods, man, you killed my wife's cousin! And a bishop no less. Do you even understand what choice that leaves me?"

Ulfrik's stomach sank and he stepped back. "He was a relation of your wife's? How could I have known? He said nothing."

"It makes no difference." Hrolf emphasized each word through his grit teeth. "The Church and my wife's family have considerable authority in this new world. And you shit all over them."

He bowed his head lower, so his chin rested on his chest. "I am sorry for what I have done. I swear to you, Jarl Hrolf, I will make amends. The Church will be welcomed on my land. I will pay whatever blood price you demand. But you cannot kill me." He stopped short of warning Hrolf that executing him would spark a revolt of his other jarls who did not embrace the Christians. Saying so would be too much like the threats of Bishop Burchard.

"Count Rollo, it is the will of Archbishop Franco that justice be carried out." Father Odger stepped closer as if to urge him, but the huge man put up his hand.

"Remember yourself, priest. I've heard what your archbishop demands, so do not remind me once more. I tire of being told how I should decide." Father Odger bristled but stepped back, his white face turning red. Hrolf's confessor, the only priest not appointed by the archbishop, guided Father Odger away with a soft whisper.

Hrolf returned to his seat, plopping into it as if exhausted. He drew a deep breath and blew it out, staring at Ulfrik. His voice was tired and soft. "You have been the greatest of my warriors and fiercest of my jarls. You carried my fight when others would not. You saved my life, twice that I know of and probably others I've never realized. So to find ourselves at this point is like a spear through the gut."

Ulfrik began to speak, but Hrolf again raised his hand for silence and closed his eyes.

"To satisfy myself, I must render a decision that pleases no one else."

Ulfrik swallowed hard. The priests leaned forward. Even Poppa and Gunther stepped from the shadows.

"For the murder of Bishop Burchard, I banish you from my lands and from my protection."

"No!" Ulfrik shouted.

"I reclaim your lands and will grant the Church property as compensation for the death of their servant."

"This is an outrage," Father Odger protested. "He is to be executed."

"Your sons are banished along with you. The injuries to Father Lambert will be paid from the confiscation of Gunnar the Black's lands."

"You can't do this!" Ulfrik lurched for Hrolf but the two guards at his side grabbed his arms.

"Your men will be allowed to follow you into banishment, or they may remain on my lands providing they swear loyalty to me in person."

"He must die," Father Odger screamed, his face bright scarlet. "The archbishop will be furious at this disobedience."

"Until the transition of lands is complete and to ensure peace, you will be held as a hostage to the good behavior of your sons and hirdmen. Any acts of violence will mean your death." Hrolf paused, eyes never wavering from Ulfrik's. "That is my judgment and my justice."

"He was to die!" Father Odger repeated, and rather than fly into a rage, Hrolf simply looked him over as if noticing the priest for the first time.

"Reputation to our people is greater than life itself. Rest assured, Father, I did just kill him."

Ulfrik struggled with his guards but he was already weakening. Hrolf turned from him without another look and gathered his wife to his side. He then disappeared into the rooms at the far end of the hall. The remaining hirdmen closed around Ulfrik, spears lowered. Some were men he knew by name, and their eyes avoided his. One of them touched his spear point to Ulfrik's belly.

"Please, Jarl Ulfrik, let's make this easy."

He stared at the tip trembling over his gut, then glared up at the quartet of priests. They returned the glares, and Hrolf's confessor stretched out his arms before them like herding children. They followed him around the edge of the hall toward the front doors. Ulfrik watched them leave until they disappeared from his sight, then he put his hand over the spear at his stomach.

"Put that down before one of us gets hurt. I'll go with you." The guards hesitated, but the lead spearman sighed and lowered his weapon, and the others followed. Ulfrik allowed them to encircle him as they prepared to exit the hall.

"This isn't done yet," he said, to no one. "Hrolf has made a mistake."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gunnar met the thirty hirdmen flying Hrolf's standard at the outskirts of the village. They all rode horses, the rumble of hooves audible across the distance. They followed the same path his father would have traveled to the Seine, where one of his ships would ferry him across the river to Rouen. He had taken thirty crew including his witnesses and about as many of Hrolf's hirdmen now arrived in return. Glints of mail showed in their black shadows and their faces were dark beneath iron helmets.

A stale gray blanket of clouds weakened the light and the scent of rain hung in the air, yet none had fallen in the days since the bishop's death. Gunnar felt as if the sky itself was holding its breath in anticipation of Hrolf's judgment. A swirl of black crows shot up, protesting the passing of Hrolf's warriors. He frowned at the ill omen.

"Remember they are friends," Hakon said from behind. Having received word from the docks of the arrival of Hrolf's crew, Gunnar had gathered his brothers and two dozen hirdmen to intercept the new arrivals. Only one farm sat in the distance where a dog barked and the farmer's wife drew water from a well. Expecting the worst, he did not want panic to spread when Hrolf's men appeared without his father.

"Yes, they are friends. Until they are not," Runa answered Hakon's reminder. She spoke with the bitter resolve of a warrior woman's hard life. She had been many things in life. Slave. Wife. Ruler. Shield Maiden. Widow. But of all her roles, Gunnar most cherished her as a mother, and so had wanted to shield her from bad news. He had forbidden her from accompanying them. However, his mother was never to be swayed where matters of his father were concerned. She dressed in a simple cloak, strapped on a short sword, and joined her sons to face the news herself. People saw how she carried herself and called her mad, but Gunnar loved her for her simple determination to do what she felt was right.