Chapter Eleven
Nine pagan bonfires burned. The Sons stopped on a crest above Rouen, witnesses to massive fires forming an arrow off the Seine. Midsumarblot blazes could be guiding the gods from their perches on high to look upon Jarl Will Longsword’s feast hall. The air smelled of smoke and spiced wine. Laughter was a song in the wind. Faces gleamed. Drums and bone flutes set a rhythm for twirling dancers. Drinking horns tipped high, revelers were ready to take their fill of food and sex.
“Look at that.” Thorvald breathed the words.
Rollo the Walker had planted his seed here. His son, Will, made it grow. But, Christian weeds sprouted in this field. Longhouses, large and small, clustered in disorderly fashion...among them light-colored thatched roofs, homes of the Christians. Down river, a single stone structure blighted the landscape. Rouen’s abbey.
Safira sat on her horse beside him, her profile a graceful line in twilight. She soaked in the festival. His men did too. Her face lit up like a woman free. Last night she’d yielded the truth and left him with a new burden.
The wealth? Or the woman? He was greedy enough to want both.
“Rurik, the markets are still open.” Bjorn nodded at stalls and colorful tents lining the Seine.
Matrons ambled through the riverside market, touching bronze buckets and pottery while children darted around their skirts. Three humble coracles bobbed in the Seine alongside Frisian cog ships and two Persian vessels. Coins would pass through many hands tonight.
“Persians are here.” Erik’s dark eyes slanted at Rurik. “This is our chance.”
“You and Bjorn sell the ermine before the feast begins. Thorfinn, sell the pack horses. Gunnar, Thorvald, purchase tents and find a place to camp down river.” He spoke to the men with an eye to Longsword’s hall where light poured from doors flung wide.
Pass through that lintel and the land is yours.
“How long are we staying?” Bjorn craned his neck to follow a wrestling match in a field.
Rurik’s mouth firmed. He hadn’t worked out what he’d say to the men, but the horses chomped at the bit as if sensing rest would be found here. Thorvald and Thorfinn stretched in their saddles for an eyeful of dancing women spinning around a bonfire. A night of richly deserved celebration and feasting was to be had.
“Prepare to stay several days. The jarl is expecting me.” He looked to his men, their eyes bright in their helmets’ eye rings, flicking back and forth from him to Rouen. Gunnar was lost to the wrestling match. Bjorn cuffed his shoulder.
“Pay attention.”
Rurik managed a smile. The storm would come. “Have fun. Stay out of trouble. Watch each other’s backs.”
Wolfish grins were his answer. The men galloped down the road, howling with laughter, their fists beating the air. They were easy to follow until they dismounted and walked their war horses into Rouen, blending with the crowd.
Rurik’s fingers curled tightly around the reins. The time had come.
“What is wrong? You look like a man prepared for a death march, not a feast.”
Safira’s lilting accent was a balm to his soul. He’d made his choices. Now to face them. He urged his horse forward, and she steered her horse alongside his.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “Once the feast begins, you must keep quiet and play the part of my thrall.”
“I’d prefer to play the part of your wife, but your men would ruin the affect by speaking the truth.”
“Why my wife?”
“Because Viking wives are equal with their husbands, no?” Her spine was straight and her smile wide. “I prefer an even standing with you.”
He laughed. “No one would believe I married you.”
“Why not?”
His gazed wandered over her, from her pretty scowl to lush breasts. “You do not have the face or the bearing of a Viking woman.”
“And you must marry a Viking woman? Why?”
A roar came from the side of the road. The horses plodded past the wrestling match. A crowd ringed the field, all eyes on Ivar, the tattooed blacksmith. The painted giant must’ve won. He brushed grass off his shoulder as two men rushed to the aid of a stumbling man. Northmen and women filled the gathering. Rurik could count on one hand those not of Viking extraction.
Meandering hooves beneath him were a sign of his reluctance to race headlong to his destiny. He would savor this time with Safira. But, as he shifted in his saddle, her question gouged him. It was time he spoke the truth to her.
“This land belongs to Northmen.” He waved at grain fields on the left. “I must plant a Northman’s seeds.”
“You speak in riddles.”
Upon entering Rouen, he turned his horse toward the great feast hall. The road was clear with everyone at the markets and bonfires. Two men dressed in the jarl’s favored blue guarded the door, their round shields held waist high. Three yellow wolves chased each other on a field of blue...the color and design of Rurik’s new shield once he swore an oath to the jarl.
“I will stay in Rouen.” His throat tight, he reined his horse in before the feast hall. “The Forgotten Sons may not.”
If Safira was surprised, she didn’t show it. She held the reins confidently in one hand, her amber gaze lingering with his. A connection sparked with understanding in those gold depths before dipping to the leather wolf on his chest. Last night she’d shared her secrets, tonight he shared his.
“A holding has been promised to me,” he said.
Safira took in burning torches and stoic housekarls standing by open doors, their spears pointing to the skies. “You are here to make an alliance with Longsword.”
“Yes.”
“And you will marry a woman of his choosing?”
“He is more concerned with me holding the land in his name.”
Her quick mind made this easy. What she said was true. The jarl would expect him to marry a Viking woman. Safira had cut her teeth in a world of wealth and power, of houses aligning for greater strength. Keeping her would be the hard part, but she would become accustomed to living amongst Vikings as concubine, comfort woman, companion. What people would call her place with him didn’t matter. Nor did her father’s gold. He didn’t need it. Surely the holding would be rich enough.
But he did need Safira in a soul-deep way.
When the time was right, he would tell her she was his to keep.
She studied the lintel with its elaborate knot-work carving. “But the jarl will arrange your marriage to a Viking woman, no?”
“Safira—” he dismounted and stood beside her, a hand on her bare knee “—I have to give my oath to Longsword and get my land first. Enough of this talk about marriage.” He removed his helmet, all the better for her to see his eyes. “It’s more important that you understand, tonight will be...festive.”
“You mean people will drink to excess?” Her voice lilted with humor. “I have seen these things before.”
His thumb drew a gentle circle on her knee cap. He craved her and her unexpected stillness. “I need you to trust me and stay by my side.”
Her mouth curled with mischief. “Where else would I be but at your side amongst so many heathens?”
“Because you fear for your virtue.”
She touched his hand on her knee. “When I am with you, Viking, I fear nothing.”
He stood taller in the glow of her praise. Her smile, her presence warmed him. She was a jewel to protect, a woman men would seek for themselves. Since confessing her secret last night, she’d laughed more. Talked to the men often, even Thorvald, jesting with him about his braids. Windblown from hard riding, Safira was a beautiful creature. One men would covet.
“First, we must see Longsword.”
“You are a little messy. You need fixing for your meeting with the jarl.” Slender fingers stroked his hairline, tucking back strands come loose and wiping a smudge of dirt off his forehead.
He submitted to her touch. It lulled him. Even in small measures. Intimate and peaceful, her nearness fed the strange seed he felt growing inside himself when he was with her. When she was done, he set both hands on her waist and lifted her from the saddle.
Her feet on the ground, he kissed her forehead, and he’d swear he smelled the magic of the Arelaune Forest on her skin. It could’ve been the drums pulsing, the elation at being moments away from claiming the land, but his lips dropped to hers, planting a full, deep kiss, a tender, claiming kiss. Safira grasped his shoulders and her fingers slipped lower, kneading the bare skin on his arms.
Emotions jumbled inside him. Thick like honey and twice as pure—and some not.
Safira’s plush lips slid against his, and he could almost believe he was made for her and she for him.
Breaking the kiss, he whispered, “Safira... I want—”
“Welcome to Rouen.” Amusement tinged a gruff voice.
Rurik jolted upright.
Ademar, Will Longsword’s older half-brother. Hands clamped behind his back, the warrior filled the portal. Big in the way of his famed father, Rollo, Ademar wore his privilege without the patina of resentment at being the bastard son. On half his head, ash blond hair hung in a thick, straight line ending at his shoulders. The other half was shaved with a scar slicing skin from his cheek to a twisting tattoo on that bare half of his head. He was a worthy warrior, known for his skill with the spear. Nothing about the man bothered Rurik except the direction of his gaze.
The bastard’s stare locked on Safira.
“Ademar.” Rurik set a possessive hand on her elbow.
Ademar caught the move before turning to a housekarl. “Take their horses.” To Rurik, “Come.”
Rurik removed his shield from his back. He passed it to the housekarl and whispered in Safira’s ear, “Stay close. And Safira...”
“Yes?”
“Keep. Quiet.”
Safira didn’t acknowledge his command, lost in the wonder of the feast hall. She untied her cloak, her neck craning at intricate carvings in tall ash wood posts. Four giggling thralls dressed in identical blue linen tunics set wooden bowls brimming with plums and pears on tables. Those four women wore their hair cropped at the shoulders. An older woman with a wheat-blonde braid hanging to her knees stood on a bench and poured oil into a lamp as wide around as a shield. It was Astrid, the jarl’s matselja, the valued keeper of his hall. In center fire pits, young boys cranked meat cooking on a spit, two pigs and venison.
Blue and yellow shields lined the walls...easily a hundred of them.
At the end of the hall an ornately carved chair faced tables that would fit two hundred or more. Behind the jarl’s seat, a carving of Yggdrasil sprawled floor to ceiling across that wall. A housekarl guarded a passage hidden behind a loose-weave leather curtain. The gervibur, the room full of weaponry, and a second storeroom containing the jarl’s wealth hid there.
At the opposite corner, Ademar pulled aside a loose-weave leather curtain. The jarl’s lodgings.
They stepped up onto plank wood floors and walked down a hallway. Ademar pushed open a door, and they entered a room smelling of spicy mead. The Jarl stood over a hnefatafl game. A seated woman dressed in black leather faced him, her pretty features fox-like. The shield maiden, Ellisif.
“Rurik.” Longsword took a draught from his drinking horn, giving the board his final consideration before pushing off the wall.
“Jarl.”
Longsword grimaced, his eyes intent on Safira. “Jarl is not necessary within these four walls.” He set his horn in an ornate silver stand. “I see you brought a guest.”
“This is Safira. She is my favored...companion.”
A smile ghosted her lips. Was she pleased he didn’t call her his thrall? “My lord,” she said, tipping her head in deference.
Longsword gave a cursory nod and braced his hands on a long table in the middle of the room. The tips of his fingers pressed hard, turning white. The hairs on Rurik’s nape bristled. Something wasn’t right. The jarl’s stare was guarded and his manner on edge.
Was there a secret within the walls?
Rurik had never been inside the room, but he knew of it. Will Longsword set strategy and made his plans here. Behind the jarl an ox hide map hung from ceiling to floor. The Seine River snaked off the sea. A smaller river, the Epte, cut the hide in half. Christians lived on one side of that river, Vikings on the other. Runes marked places on the map, but his knowledge of runes was basic. One place was obvious—Paris, the island citadel in the Seine with its two bridges.
Ellisif unfolded herself from the table, flicking ice-blonde hair over her shoulder. Tiny runes were tattooed across the bridge of her nose, a thin line down the center of her chin, and two lines flaring high off her cheekbones. A single larger rune, algiz from older times, was visible between her eyes.
“Rurik.” Her cool green stare landed on Safira. “I am Ellisif. The jarl’s favored...housekarl.”
“Housekarl?” Safira echoed.
“A common warrior of no special rank,” she explained in a throaty purr.
The jarl eyed Ellisif and nudged his head at the door.
“It looks like you and I are being dismissed.” Long legs encased in black leather ranged across the room. “Come. I’ll take you to your room.”
If Safira was nervous, she didn’t show it. Standing proudly, she gave her thanks to the jarl and Ademar. Only the pink tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip betrayed her nervousness before she disappeared into the hallway.
Ellisif tarried at the lintel. She glanced at the hnefatafl board, her smile full of mischief for the jarl. “Your move.” And she shut the door.
Longsword’s mouth twisted in his trimmed beard.
Ademar chuckled. “Women.” Looking to Rurik, he held up an earthen pitcher from a table tucked in a corner. “Mead to quench your thirst after a long journey?”
“No. I prefer to take my bad news sober.”
Ademar poured mead for himself. “You see, brother, that is why Rurik of the Forgotten Sons is the right man.” Ademar tapped the tattooed side of his head. “He is smart enough to read the lay of the land. Or at least he can read you.”
“Not well enough.” Longsword’s gaze flicked from Rurik to his brother.
Ademar’s shrug was light. A wealth of unspoken words between brothers.
Hairs on Rurik’s neck stood on end. “Something is wrong.”
“Wrong? You could say that.” Longsword walked the length of the table. “Your taking the land was supposed to be quiet. Without trouble.” He dusted a clean corner. “I can’t afford more trouble than I already have.”
“What kind of trouble are you talking about?”
“Did you or your men steal beer from Wandrille Abbey?” Longsword asked.
The beer. He gritted his teeth, Safira’s warning echoed in his head. You reap what you sow, Viking.
“Our supplies were running low. My men took two small casks of beer.”
The jarl’s fingers drummed the table. “You stole from monks.”
“No blood was shed.”
“That’s not the point,” Longsword bit out.
“Then what is?”
Ademar circled the room, humor dancing in his eyes. “Get ready. You’ll like this.”
Longsword glanced peevishly at his brother and retrieved a rolled-up ox hide from a shelf on the wall. “My brother finds humor when I’m roused from my bed before sunrise because Christian holy men demand an audience.”
“The monks from Wandrille Abbey are here?”
“Yes. Three of them cower behind barred doors in Rouen’s abbey to avoid our pagan Midsumarblot feast.” Longsword set the ox hide on the table and began untying it.
“How did they get here before—” Rurik stopped himself and finished, his voice flat “—the coracles on the riverbank.”
Ships favored by Gaels and their holy men. It made sense the holy men here would craft the same puny, basket-like vessels. The monks must’ve got in their boats and rowed upriver all night. Right after his men stole their beer.
“See what I mean, brother?” Ademar’s grin was a show of teeth. “He’s smart.”
“I need more than smart and good with a sword.” Longsword gave the ox hide a snap and it unrolled across the table. “I need someone skilled with people. A talent for war is one thing, but I can’t have monks complaining to Christian kings east of the Epte River how Vikings are treating them badly. It’s a battle cry for Christians.”
Rurik set a booted foot on the table’s bench. He braced a hand on his knee, leaning in to see the new map. “I’ll pay these holy men and be done with it.”
Ademar’s laughter rose to the rafters. “Oh, it gets better. Wait for this.”
“You will hear their complaints with me tomorrow morning.” Longsword smoothed the hide’s curling edge. “It would be wise of you to reassure them.”
“Of what?”
The jarl planted both hands on the ox hide. This map was similar to the one hanging on the wall except more markings had been inked on the leather. A dotted line cut the hide in half with circles to the south, symbols of scattered Gaelic, Breton, and Celtic tribes with markings of Germanic tribes deeper in Frankia.
“You must convince the monks that you are not a Viking beast...that you are a fair and honest leader.”
He winced at that.
Longsword’s finger drew a long oval on his map. “Because those Christian holy men live on the land I had planned to give you.” He paused, his smile rueful. “You would be their protector.”
Rurik scrubbed a hand across his face. Ground was shaky beneath him, all because Norns were threading a challenge in his life’s weave. He would meet it. Safira, the Sons, the land and now these monks. All were threads of responsibility. Ademar hummed a humored tune and poured more mead for himself. Longsword traced a line on his secret map, starting from the Seine’s low, tight curve.
“Your land would have been from here, to Jumieges Abbey, to the Arelaune forest all the way to the east-west road by Wandrille Abbey.”
“I will reassure the holy men.”
“It would be good for your men to be here too.”
Two things bothered Rurik in that moment. He hadn’t told his men and the jarl obviously expected them to be part of this plan, and Longsword kept using words like the land I had planned to give you and your land would have been here as if the matter was not concluded. Powerful need surged in him, from the soles of his boots to the sword strapped to his back. His fame, his story would be written on this map. The land would be his. Best he get on with telling the truth.
“The Forgotten Sons may or may not stay.”
“I was under the impression your men would continue to serve you.” There was hardness in Longsword’s voice and cold disappointment.
“I am their leader, but we have worked on near equal standing. The Forgotten Sons are wanderers...too restless to live in one place for long. I won’t order them to stay.”
Ademar moseyed up to the table. “Have you asked them? Part of your appeal is your men. You’re a small band of warriors, yet a well-known force to be reckoned with by any measure.”
“Will you ask them?” Longsword’s voice was the soul of patience.
“Yes, but you must understand, in our years together, we’ve shared our spoils evenly. I’ve never taken a leader’s portion. My taking the land changes everything.” Rurik shook his head. “They can live there, but the holding would be mine.” Rurik waved a hand over the map. “Would you consider giving them holdings of their own?”
Longsword and Ademar exchanged speaking glances. The jarl’s mouth firmed. “I will consider it, though I prefer to have a seasoned fighting force working as one rather than spreading you out. I need protection from invaders coming off the sea. The Breton Queen Annick harries me from the south. My spies tell me she wants to attack from the river.”
Rurik studied the map’s snaking blue line. “The same way Vikings went after Paris. Sailing up the Seine River.”
Queen Annick of Nantes, wife of Rognvald, a Viking of Oslo. Rognvald and his Viking men invaded the southern Breton lands, but unlike other Vikings they did not seek to farm or flourish through trade. Chaos and disorder ruled. Christian Bretons fled the land, but a beautiful young noble woman named Annick was caught. Rognvald married her, and that was when the Viking’s troubles began.
Rognvald’s men mysteriously poisoned. Throats sliced while abed.
Skalds whispered of Annick’s blood oath, but to which god?
It was said the Breton woman had bided her time, quietly gathering followers from weak Gaelic and Celtic tribes along the coast. She’d vowed to cleanse the land of Vikings.
“My wish was to have you put two defensive lines in the river...here—” Longsword tapped the Seine above Jumieges Abbey and drew a line east across the land “—and here.”
“It will be done.”
“I had also hoped you and the Forgotten Sons would bring on more men, become a training ground for warriors. With the rich forests, you could have ship builders on the land as well...build a fleet of ships for me. I will need both to defeat the Breton queen.”
Arms crossed, Rurik studied the map, with two points glaring in his mind. The jarl didn’t want to invade Paris: he cared only about defeating the pagan queen to the south. Yet, because of stolen beer, Longsword wasn’t convinced Rurik was the man to keep watch over an important Nor’man holding.
“I have a great many plans. This is one of them.” The jarl tossed a coin onto the table, the tarnished silver spinning on the map.
Rurik picked up the well-traveled coin. A Viking ship was stamped on one side. “A coin of Hedeby.”
“I will mint my own coins and make Rouen a fine trading center to rival Paris. To do that I must have strong fighting men, and leaders who know how to live with Christians among us. There can be no distractions.” The jarl eyed the southern symbols, his mouth a hard line. “Because I will crush the Breton queen and take her land in the south.”
Rurik tossed the coin back to Longsword. “Have you changed your mind? About my leadership here and the holding?”
“It is a consideration. The land is wild...wide open. You would have to camp in the forest until your lodgings are built or seek shelter in one of the abbeys.” His laugh was grim. “I’m not sure the monks would have you, and you cannot spill their blood.”
Rurik waved a hand over the strip of land. “No one else lives here?”
“None. I hope you have plenty of gold. You would have to hire men or build your longhouse and barn yourself...a difficult task if you have no one to support you.”
No one...as in the Forgotten Sons.
Rurik read the hide. The markings on leather stood out boldly. Abbeys, small squares with crosses scattered throughout the land. The Arelaune Forest, a green swath painted on leather. The Seine, a curving blue ribbon.
This was his land.
One small use of force shouldn’t count, but it did in Longsword’s eyes. The jarl, irked as he was about the nervous holy men, was too calm. Rurik had navigated shifting kingdoms enough times to know Longsword was leaving nothing to chance. There was another warrior.
Without looking up from the map, he said, “You have someone else in mind to take the land.”
Laughter and music bled past the jarl’s closed door. Midsumarblot revelers must’ve stumbled into the feast hall. Outside was noisy yet Longsword and his brother were distinctly quiet.
“After the monks were here this morning, it was Ademar’s idea to approach another warrior.” The jarl flipped the coin and caught it. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. “You understand, with the threat from the south, I need to move quickly.”
Ademar stood beside his brother, his face, eyes, and stance mirroring the jarl. It was said Longsword was the iron and Ademar was the sharp edge of the blade, the one to see things done. Both were men of action, but Ademar, a hrisungr, the bush born son of a free man and slave mother, walked a more violent path. The brothers worked in concert from years of knowing the intricacies of the other—like the Forgotten Sons.
Rurik stood tall. “I would fight to the death for this land, but I will not beg.”
A grin common to beasts of war creased Ademar’s face, while stately acknowledgment touched the jarl’s.
“First, you and I have the monks to appease tomorrow morning.”
“My rival for the land. He is here for Midsumarblot?”
The jarl stalled. “Don’t you care to know who I have arranged for you to wed? If you get the land?”
“Not particularly.”
“Lady Brynhild of Fecamp. A beautiful, wealthy widow.” Ademar’s fingers tapped the table. “She agreed to wed whoever wins.”
They’d already planned a fight for the land.
“I have heard of Lady Brynhild,” he grated. “She is the least of my concerns.”
Rurik glared at Longsword. He was not a pet to be managed. It was best the chieftain knew this. Rurik would speak his mind and do what needed doing. For years he was the warrior who went into dark places and came out alive. The jarl’s jaw tightened as if a seed of understanding passed. He lived in the shadow of a famed father and by all accounts was on his way to exceed his father’s memory. With his plan to expand Rouen’s borders, he would. Longsword balanced a warrior’s might with a leader’s skill. He would make tough decisions and not think twice about them.
“The name of my rival?” Rurik asked firmly.
“Vlad of Birka. Your father.”