Sword Brothers (15 page)

"This is no time for jest," Aren said airily. "I'll enlist Vilhjalmer's aid. He might not even be aware of what is happening. Finn, you are a like a forest spirit when you set your mind to it. You should discover what happened to Einar, and give him our news. Make sure he can ride to our aid, and that he spreads the word. Ull the Strong is still his neighbor, and has ever been a supporter of our father. Those two alone can make trouble for Hrolf."

"And my role?" Hakon asked. "Shall I work the loom or spin wool like an old crone while you have your adventure?"

"News is going to reach our men sooner or later. You have their respect, so you will organize them. Start with the most loyal, so you have backup if others choose to revolt. You must be our jarl, Hakon. There can be no other."

"I'm delighted you elected me to the role," Hakon said, then stood. He reached across the table and mussed Aren's hair like he used to when they were children. "You are king-maker now, but I'll be rolled in horse dung if your plan doesn't work. Refill your horn and let's drink to its success."

Finn snatched the horn then refilled it. He thrust it into Aren's hands and slipped his arm about his neck. They all raised their drinks and Hakon made the toast.

"To the safe return of our father!"

When they had guzzled the mead and set their horns upon the board, they all laughed. Aren, though, could not stop thinking how much of their plan relied upon good luck. He prayed the gods they still had it left to them.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Gunnar arrived on the Seine with thirty of his own hirdmen, and stared across the cloudy water to the opposite shore. A ferry rowed toward them, halfway across the expanse. His own ship was moored to his father's dock where three other ships sat patiently waiting for their owners to take them to sea. Gunnar recalled a time when the open sea had been his only home. Seeing those masts all grouped together brought back memories of fleets taking to open water to find adventure and plunder.

"I've spoke with the guards," Bekan said, approaching from the docks. The high afternoon sun filled the sockets beneath his heavy brow with shadow. "Magnus's men passed both coming and going, but did not cause trouble. They left the ships alone."

"You might think they wanted us to do this," Gunnar said with a smile. "We can't land across the river where Hrolf's men could see us, but will have to sail upriver to cross."

Bekan scratched at the jagged white scar in his brow. "As long as we're still priest-hunting."

"That we are, old friend."

They sailed toward Paris. River traffic had increased now that Hrolf had pledged himself to Charles the Simple. A single longship was no longer a threat to anyone, and so they rowed against the current to a landing on the northern tip of Hrolf's lands. Beaching the ship, Gunnar left ten men to guard it and took the others inland. They followed the banks back west before cutting inland where sentries on the river might spot them.

"Do you know where this village is?" Bekan asked.

"I've an idea," Gunnar said. In truth he had a vague notion of its position. He had beaten one of the men who still lingered around Hrothgar's farm for the location of Father Lambert's church. At the time the directions seemed easy enough. Gunnar had been so filled with hate for this man, blaming him for all that had happened, that he split the man's head open with his ax. Now he wished he had taken him along as a guide.

They entered a light wood for cover against discovery by travelers or sentries. They stumbled through this wood and it grew thicker, not lighter as he had expected. The trail he had hoped to pick up had not revealed itself, and they had to double back to try once more. At last they did come to a path and followed it until a farmhouse appeared above a rise ahead. Gunnar smiled and pointed, as if to assure himself he had not gotten them lost.

"This must be the place," he said.

"Wasn't there supposed to be a giant elm by the farm?" Bekan asked.

"Maybe they cut it down," Gunnar said. His heart began pounding, realizing he might have followed the wrong path. The land was crisscrossed with them, worn into the dirt by villagers traveling to different towns. Nothing was laid out in any plan, and picking the wrong path was not uncommon.

"Let's send someone ahead to discover who's up there," Gunnar said. "If this is not the right village, we must learn where we are."

They retreated down the path until the farmhouse disappeared, then two men headed up the trail. No one spoke while the men were gone, as if speaking might cause them to become lost. Gunnar paced, holding his stump arm behind his back. While he paced, he noticed a shape atop the hill. He stared at it, not sure of what he was seeing.

Then the form burst into a run, and fled over the horizon.

"Shit! We've been seen." Gunnar pointed at the crest, as did another of his men.

"Should we run?" Bekan asked, and the men all turned to him.

His temple throbbed. If they had to retreat in failure, with Father Lambert just over that rise, he would never forgive himself. His father's freedom depended upon this decision. "Are we women to run from shadows? Do you think our swords and mail are not good enough to face a farmer's rake?"

The men laughed and shook their heads. Gunnar pulled the ax from his belt loop and pointed ahead, and with a roar led them up the track.

They piled over the ridge, where he stopped to examine the landscape. His eyes settled on a large elm tree and his body flooded with relief. His two men were chasing someone into a barn. He had no time to see who they pursued, but the door slammed on them and they began to kick. Gunnar called out for them to stop.

"It's the church we want to find," he said as he joined the rest of his men to the two he had sent ahead. "What did you learn?"

"Only that these are suspicious folk," said one of the men.

Gunnar scanned the rest of the farms, and saw people running out of the fields or fleeing the area. He had no way to contain all of them, but he did spot the stone building he had hoped to find.

The church was a small and simple structure, the only stone building in the entire village. The steeply pitched roof had been newly thatched, and Gunnar imagined it burning. Around the church were neatly trimmed shrubs and a small grove of trees behind it. People were fleeing to it now, as they always did when raiders came. He remembered his raids fondly as well.

"Let's go see if Father Lambert has both of his legs," he said.

They marched directly toward the church which seemed to huddle in fear in the open field. Gunnar sent his younger, faster men to sprint around the rear and cut off anyone trying to flee that way. The main force hit the front door, a heavy wooden affair with iron bindings. He tried it, and it was barred as expected.

"Looks like we're not welcome," Gunnar said, stepping back. "And I thought they wanted to make us Christians."

His men laughed and he gestured at Vigfus, one of his strongest men, to take his two-handed ax to the door. The wide-shouldered man hefted the ax overhead and slammed it into the door. Muted screams followed the thud of the ax head biting into the wood.

"We're getting inside no matter what you want," Gunnar called through the door while Vigfus pried out his ax. "So why anger me like this? Just open up. We only want to talk to your priest."

He shared a wry smile with Bekan, but when no one answered he had Vigfus continue to chop the door. By the time it splintered open, Vigfus was streaming with sweat. "Must be a pile of gold in there to have a door like this," Vigfus said as he used his ax to widen the hole he had broken.

"All churches are filled with spoils," Gunnar said. "After we take the priest, we'll help ourselves to some of his riches. I'm sure he won't miss it."

Having cleared a hole large enough to see through, Vigfus stuck a section of splintered door through the opening. It was an old trick used against desperate villagers. They might be hidden against the side of the door with a blade to stick into the first arm through the opening. Their fright normally caused them to strike at the first thing through the hole. When nothing struck Vigfus's decoy, he put his arm through and pulled up the bar. It clunked to the floor and more women screamed inside the church.

"I hate screaming women," Gunnar said. "Reminds me of my wife. Always screaming about something."

Bekan chuckled. "Morgan's a steady woman. I think it's you who does all the screaming."

"I've got two daughters. Between them and my wife there's enough screeching in my life."

The door burst open and the screams hit him with full force. Vigfus stepped aside to allow Gunnar the opportunity to enter first, which he did with his ax ready. He confronted a single man with a dull iron sword so tarnished he did not think the weapon had been used since Charlemagne ruled. Behind him were two other men with wooden rakes held like spears. Clustered against the altar were all women and children, their dirty faces white with fear. The tiny church might fit twenty people with comfort, but now it was crammed with bodies. The place smelled like sweat and manure with the rotten odor of tallow candles.

"Where's all the gold?" Bekan asked as he stood to Gunnar's left. "A Church without gold is like a woman without tits."

"Like a woman, they won't show it without no one," Vigfus said, standing to Gunnar's right.

"All right, boys," Gunnar said. "We'll get to the spoils in a moment."

Despite the banter, Gunnar's head throbbed. He did not see Father Lambert. He did not even see a priest. A throng of filthy, scared farmers was no help to him, and without Father Lambert for evidence, Ulfrik would be doomed. He leveled his ax at the man holding the sword.

"Stop waving that shit excuse for a weapon at me. Do you want to get hurt?" He spoke in Frankish, and the man stared back at him with wide eyes. Gunnar rolled his own and drew closer. The man still did not move. Gunnar's ax flashed as it struck out, hooking the blade and yanking it out of the farmer's hand. It clattered to the wood floor and bent. The women screamed again, but Gunnar laughed and kicked the ruined blade away.

"Did you steal that from a grave? Never mind. Where is Father Lambert?"

His men dragged the benches aside to allow more of Gunnar's crew to force into the church. The two men with the rakes stood protectively before the women and children while the disarmed man trembled, staring at Gunnar like he was a wolf.

"All right, do you have a priest here?" Gunnar asked. He used his ax head to hook the disarmed man's shirt and pulled him closer. "If you don't answer, you're no use to me. So speak or die."

"I am the priest you seek."

Gunnar tore his ax from the farmer's shirt and looked back behind the altar where a middle-aged man in black robes stood with his arms folded. He was thin and wrinkled, but his hair and eyes were nearly as dark as Gunnar's. His left eye twitched rapidly, making it hard for Gunnar to focus on anything else. He wore no riches, only a simple wooden cross hung from his neck. Behind him, a larger wooden cross adorned the stone wall of this plain church.

"You're not Father Lambert. Where is he?"

The priest stood straighter. "I do not know of a Father Lambert. This has always been my church."

Gunnar sighed and slumped his shoulders. "This is the game we're going to play, then? You've been told to hide him from me, and you'll pretend not to know anything about him. I'll start killing these good people until you can't bear the guilt anymore, and then you'll finally tell me. So why not just tell me now?"

The women screamed and even the men flinched at Gunnar's threat. The priest's mouth dropped open and he slowly shook his head. "I really have never heard of Father Lambert."

"Let's just check your honesty."

Bekan and Vigfus each grabbed the armed men and Gunnar hooked the last one with his ax. He did not want to kill these innocents, so he raised a brow to the priest. "Last chance to save someone's husband?"

"Father Lambert has not returned." One of the women blurted. She was weed thin, twisted from labor and browned from the sun. Her blue eyes burned out from her muddy face. "He went to found a church but never came back."

Gunnar smiled. "Thank you. See how easy that was? Now we just have to talk to the priest for a few more details."

The priest wavered as if about to pass out. Bekan forced through the crowd and seized the priest by his throat, then dragged him to Gunnar.

"Since you're a liar, we're doing this the hard way."

"I didn't lie. I've always been a priest here."

Gunnar punched the priest in the stomach, doubling him over. "Put his right arm over the altar," he said. "Hold back the others. Gut them if they resist."

The priest struggled as Bekan pulled his arm out and Vigfus pressed his face into the altar. Gunnar leaned beside him and showed him his stump.

"Some Frankish prick cut this off when I was just a boy. My sword hand. But see, it never stopped me from doing as I wished, and I've been killing Franks ever since. But since we're at peace, or so our leaders tell us, I'll give you one last chance. Tell me where I can find Father Lambert and you keep your right hand. Is that so hard?"

"I don't know where he is. He didn't tell me anything. Just left and never came back." The words rushed out in a bubbling torrent. Gunnar shook his head.

"Wrong answer." He raised his ax and slammed it down on the priest's forearm. It sunk deep into the bone but did not cut off the limb. The priest shrieked as did nearly everyone inside the church. Gunnar ducked his head at the screaming, grimacing as if he had been struck himself.

"You might be able to save that hand if you'd just be honest and give up Father Lambert. Where is he?"

The priest sobbed, echoed by the women and children watching in terror. Gunnar lifted the priest's face with the bloody ax head.

"They took him to Rouen. That's all I know."