Sword Brothers (9 page)

"She smells the mead on you," Bekan joked. "You remember how to ride?"

"Help me onto this monster and let's get be gone."

The journey across his lands was effortless from horseback, though Gunnar had only one hand for the reins of his horse. They followed trails that had been worn around old stumps, deep-set rocks, or other unnavigable patches. He waved at the farmers in their fields but did not stop to chat. He was never as good as his father with building relations with his people. He preferred they worked their farms, paid their taxes, and visited him only with good news.

His territory was not wide, but was deep. Hrothgar's farm was at the northern tip closer to the Seine River, and he heard the shouting long before he saw the farm. They crested a rise then paused to review the situation. Gunnar easily spotted the squat, long buildings of Hrothgar's farm and the fences built around it. He scanned east of it to where the shouting echoed and saw the crowds gathered.

"That's right in the middle of his pasture," Gunnar said.

"Something Father Lambert does not understand."

"Let's help him understand."

Gunnar kicked his horse's flanks and guided the beast by its mane. He had difficulty in making it take a direct route. "Did you find the most contrary horse you could find?"

"Ander said she was the most docile one of the bunch."

"He is a liar."

Their horses picked their own path down the slope and, true to Bekan's prediction, their arrival on horseback gained everyone's attention.

Father Lambert stood in his black robes, his hair cut blunt and short, making his fat round head look like melon. His flesh looked like white clay to Gunnar's eyes, and he appeared doughy, as if he had never lifted anything heavier than a quill pen. Hrothgar was his exact opposite, a gnarled mass of lumpy muscle weathered from years under the sun both behind a plow and a shieldwall. He had three yellow teeth, yellow eyes, and a snarl that made a rabid wolf seem tame. Father Lambert had about fifteen followers lined up behind him, mostly men but some women and children, all in simple clothing, arranging rocks in a wide rectangle to mark the location of the proposed church. Watching them listlessly were a handful of Gunnar's hirdmen, who gave him pleading looks.

"It's about time someone in authority showed up," Father Lambert said. Gunnar had only met him once, but his voice was pitched too high for a man and dripped with a whinny sarcasm that made Gunnar's hand itch to strike him. He stared up at Gunnar on his horse, undaunted by the animal.

"What's going on here?" He looked to Hrothgar, whose red face relaxed upon seeing him.

"Jarl Gunnar, this fool wants to stick his church in the center of my pasture."

"So I see," Gunnar stroked his beard as if in careful thought. "How much did he pay you for it? Such a prime field must have cost the good priest a fortune."

"The old farmer will be compensated for the land. But I have a decree from Bishop Burchard to begin immediate construction of a church to serve our flock in these lands." Father Lambert's cheeks jiggled as he spoke, and Gunnar wanted to kick him in the face. It was an impulse he resisted, but he detested Christian priests, and this one was more odious than most.

"Impressive. The compensation doesn't sound very specific. You seemed to have staked out a wide patch of land, a very specific gain, and offered Hrothgar nothing better than a dream of some future reward. Before I agree to this church of yours, I'd like to know what exactly you are paying for the land and when."

Father Lambert's eyes drew to slits and he cocked his head at Gunnar as if debating whether to throw a punch. His followers put down their rocks and gathered closer. Hrothgar folded his arms in victory. "That's right, priest. How much gold are you offering for my land?"

"Did you not hear who has authorized this?" Father Lambert's voice was a low threat. "Bishop Burchard's decree is all I require to begin construction of my church. You have the Church's promise to compensate Hrothgar for his land. That is enough."

"It's not enough for me," Gunnar said. Bekan glanced at him, probably wondering when he would erupt into violence. Gunnar did not look at him, but stared down at the priest from the horse. "I will summon my hirdmen to put a stop to this. You are on my land and abide by my laws."

"You impetuous boy," Father Lambert said. "This land is held by Hrolf the Strider, and he his beholden to King Charles. He has demanded the Church rebuild its presence where your kind banished it. Bishop Burchard has his orders from the king, and an even mightier power in Jesus Christ!"

Gunnar had done all he could to dam the tide of anger, and invoking the name of the Christian god to steal his property broke it wide open.

"I'll have your fucking arrogant head on a spear!" His tore his sword from its sheath as he yelled. Father Lambert's eyes went from slitted defiance to wide-open terror, and he sprang back. "This is my land, and if you want to steal it, then bring an army instead of old men and women."

The hirdmen drew their swords and a woman screamed. Father Lambert scampered away, then fell on his back.

In the same moment, Fate revealed its designs.

Gunnar's supposedly docile horse shrieked at the sudden violence and reared. Out of reflex, Gunnar dropped his sword and seized the reins with his one hand. Someone howled and everyone began shouting. The spooked horse bolted and Gunnar could do nothing but hold onto its neck while it charged away. Had it been any other man in another situation, Gunnar would have balled up in laughter, but now his rage turned to fear as the animal dashed back up the slope. Realizing this beast was not going to calm down, he had no choice but to leap from it. He closed his eyes and threw himself clear into a patch of clover. Despite the soft appearance, he landed on rocks that drove the wind from his lungs. He lay staring at the stark blue sky above for long moments before he regained his senses.

The stupid animal had thudded away over the crest, and Gunnar stood up and dusted off his pants. Back down the slope, his hirdmen were chasing away many of Father Lambert's followers, while a small knot of them crowded around something. Bekar's horse had also run off. Stomach tight with fear, Gunnar took the first painful steps downhill then broke into a jog when the pain abated.

He pushed through the crowd and found Father Lambert on his back in the grass. Gunnar's dropped sword had speared the priest's left leg. His face was pasty white, and he shivered with pain. The dark cloth around the sword glistened from the spreading pool of blood. Bekan was cutting away the robe to get a better look at the wound. Gunnar closed his eyes and turned aside.

From behind he heard a woman from Father Lambert's followers accuse him. "You ran him through. You killed Father Lambert!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ulfrik rushed back across the field toward his hall. A tight pain built in his left leg as he swished through ankle-high grass, but he ignored it. Aren was ahead, pausing to turn and wait for him. The black shape of the long hall still felt so far away, and he feared he would never reach it in time.

"I wish we had horses," Ulfrik called out to his son. "You should've brought one."

Aren's face was red, whether from embarrassment at the mistake or anger at their speed, Ulfrik could not guess. A crowd of people had gathered at the front doors of his hall, and his heart dropped at the sight of it. He redoubled his pace.

They threaded the paths between homes and buildings, mounting the heavily worn track to his hall. He was careful not to step into a rut lest he break his leg. The murmur of the crowd was tense, and Ulfrik glimpsed Hakon emerging from the hall. As he and Aren closed the final distance, the crowd began to disperse. A woman with baggy, sad eyes looked at him mournfully as he passed. Two more men behind her nodded solemnly. He caught up to Aren at the hall doors.

"How is he?" Ulfrik asked.

Hakon shook his head and looked aside. "He lives."

"Thank the gods for that much." Ulfrik glanced past Hakon to Runa who stood in the shadows. Her face was puffy and she did not wear her head cover. He pushed past Hakon and grabbed her by both arms.

Her eyes were wet from crying, and Ulfrik had no words to comfort her. He gently squeezed her arms, and she placed her cold hands over his.

"He has been asking for you," Hakon said. "I don't think it is long now."

Ulfrik swallowed hard and nodded. It was a day he knew would come, but he was not ready for it. He tenderly folded Runa's hands back to her sides, then straightened himself. "I will go to him now, and not leave again until this is done."

Being a jarl of such a large and important territory had proved a demanding task. His decision was required for everything, particularly where the Seine River trade was involved. He had spent the morning sending off an important trader and had to scurry back when Aren arrived with dire news. Fortunately he did not need to accompany the trader to the river, which was half a day's walk.

He crossed his empty hall, limping with the pain of his old wound, but not losing a stride. The tables had been cleared to the sides and he only had to skirt the large hearth at the center. Mounting the rise to the high tables, he passed through the wide door to his room and immediately the scent of death filled his nose. He stopped, not out of reflex, for he had long grown accustomed to the smell of the dead, but from fear of what he might find.

Yellow points of lamplight encircled Snorri as he lay on Ulfrik's bed. He was stripped to his waist, and his thin, frail body glistened with sweat. His gray body hair was like a fine cloud clinging to his skin, and his chest rose and fell with his shallow breath. His age-spotted hands were folded over a sword that Runa had placed over his chest. A wet towel was folded over his brow, and his head rested on a block of pure ash wood to draw off evil spirits. Yet in one glance Ulfrik understood there was no evil here, only old age and the time Fate had selected for death.

"Is that you, lad?" His voice was weak and strained. Ulfrik swallowed, then entered his own bedchamber.

"It is. Save your strength. I will sit with you until you are well again."

Snorri's laughter was like the crackling of dry leaves. His eyes were sunken into their sockets and his face was more skull-like than the prior day. It seemed overnight he had deteriorated. Ulfrik put his hand on Snorri's forehead and felt the heat emanating from it.

"You should not have traveled here," Ulfrik said, trying not to let blame slip into his voice, though he heard it bite into his words.

"And why not? I am glad to spend my final days with you, lad."

"Don't say it."

"I'm old, lad. Older than I have a right to be. No man dies before his time, but when his time arrives, no man may avoid it."

Ulfrik patted Snorri's shoulder and the two sat in silence. Einar had taken Snorri to visit, as he had not been to Ulfrik's hall in the year and half since Hrolf made peace with the Franks. Snorri had planned to stay a month, then Einar would return to fetch him home. The night after Einar left, he complained of a sour stomach. Within days he was too sick to stand. Ulfrik gave him his bed, and had healers to tend him day and night, but he only worsened. Men were dispatched to call Einar back, but so far he had not arrived. He would not be present for his father's death, for Snorri seemed to have few breaths remaining.

Runa and her two sons quietly joined him by the bedside. Snorri's eyes were closed but he continued to breathe. At last his lids fluttered open and he reached out a hand for Ulfrik. He grabbed it in his own, feeling Snorri's intense heat.

"How old am I?" Snorri asked.

"I'm not sure. Maybe you are seventy, or perhaps older?" Ulfrik tried to think back to his earliest memories, but Snorri had always been a man.

"Does Harald Finehair still rule in Norway?"

Ulfrik laughed. "Of course he does. Why do you ask now?"

"I promised your father I'd never stand for one jarl ruling over all others. Remember how we fought Harald?"

"How could I forget? It was a terrible battle. So many friends were lost that day." Ulfrik had also killed his brother and avenged his father's murder in the same battle, but even after so many years he still could not discuss it. Some wounds never healed.

"So now one jarl rules over all others, but we call him a different name." Snorri's watery eyes fixed on him. "How does that figure, lad?"

Swallowing hard, he could only stare at Snorri's knowing eyes. His face grew hot with shame. The answer was now he had gained too much land and wealth to reject the offer, whereas under Harald he had nothing more than a half dozen farms. Snorri's trembling hand squeezed his.

"It's all right, lad. Your father would not have done any different. Hrolf has been generous and you deserve all you have gained. But be wary of what you trade for it." He paused to catch his breath, and Ulfrik folded Snorri's hand to his chest.

"Rest now," he said. "We can speak again later."

"There's no later. I must use every breath wisely. Listen to me, lad. I don't like the mixing of our people with the Franks. Already we're losing ourselves. Don't grow soft. Remember our people and our ways." Snorri spoke in a rush, his voice rough and tired.

"I can do nothing else, old friend." Ulfrik omitted how many of his people had already begun to intermarry with the Franks and how some spoke Frankish in their own homes.

"Good, and keep the Church out of your lands. I have seen my own son forced to give away property and gold to them. They use Hrolf's authority like a war hammer. Don't let them take what you have built. All they want is your land, your people, and your gold."

"You know I've no love of the Christian priests."

"Hrolf is on their side now. I've seen it. How much blood have our people spilled to make a home here, only to give it to some soft-bellied priest? Promise me you won't let it happen to you. And help my son keep what he has."