Chapter Eight
They camped in a graveyard of deserted Viking ships. Moss and ferns crowded splintered dragon prows. A breeze riffled a torn sail. Northmen wrote their stories in blood on this riverbank, counting gold and silver, repairing ships, planning their next attack.
A place of brotherhood and battle.
Rurik breathed the magic of past warriors. Skalds sang of the Arelaune Forest, a mystical woods worthy of Yggdrasil’s seeds. His third time here and the gods still whispered to him. Winds of change were coming. Less pillaging, more trading. Vikings and Christians living together. Raids ending in defeat or the Danegeld puny.
He was young enough to crave conquering kingdoms; old enough to yearn for land and want to nurture it.
Rurik dismounted his warhorse. His booted feet landed in tall grass—good soil to carve out his story.
But the pain in his chest...
The heel of his hand rubbed his breast bone. Pain twisted, the coil getting tighter. Three days they had journeyed. One more day and they would arrive in time for Rouen’s Midsumarblot bonfires. Safira would know his deception. So too would the Sons.
His men set up camp, working with pride and understanding that came from years of friendship and fighting together. Gunnar and Thorfinn hefted a fallen mast across two boats in the tree line, creating a fence for the horses. Erik and Bjorn set their hudfats by a fire ring already in the ground. None wanted to stop their wandering ways. Taking the land would be hard on the Sons, but his silence about the jarl’s offer would be harder. His men wouldn’t forgive him.
“What is this place?” Safira dismounted, landing agile as a cat.
“An old Viking camp.” Rurik took the reins from her and nodded at a once grand ship split in half in cattails. “Behold the glory of the Northmen.”
She smiled. “Not very frightening.”
Pride was a mantle on his shoulders nonetheless. If he was quiet, he’d hear men of old sharpening axes, speaking of farms and fishing, of raids and far-flung journeys. Wind in the towering trees carried their wisdom. They’d tell him to honor cleverness, courage, luck, and fame—the Viking seeds planted here.
“The Arelaune Forest.” Safira’s head tipped back. “What manner of things have these trees witnessed?”
Without a word, he led their horses to the Seine. Vikings had owned this snake-like river for years, stealing from it and living on it. Peaceful water flowed, lifeblood for kings and highborn men and the humblest farmer and fighter.
Safira trotted to catch up with him. She tromped through tall grass, studying his profile. “Something bothers you.”
The maid saw too much. Her face was open and curious in his side vision. Silence was his best ally.
Her gentle laugh was intimate. “I can see it in your mouth, but it is not a thing you want to tell me.”
“My mouth?” He dropped the reins and let the horses drink.
Dragonflies danced at the water’s edge. Grass was thicker and longer, the mud rich and black. A deer and her fawn darted from dense cattails, bounding for the woods. Safira watched them go, her face full of delight at the simple beauty.
“Yes. Your mouth—” she turned to him, her finger drawing a line across her lips “—the corners, the way it is set. One side is crooked when you are troubled.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You say much with your mouth when you are quiet, Viking. Sometimes with your eyes.”
Arms folding across his chest, he hummed a neutral sound and gave his attention to the river. His mother and sister had said as much when he was a boy. Safira was a keen observer of him and his men. She soaked up details, little habits like Thorfinn’s skill with horses and their ailments and Erik’s need for precision in everything he did. But when her amber gaze honed in on him...it went deep and left him naked.
She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, staring at the river. “We do not have to talk about you.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Her soft laugh was a balm. “I expected you to say that.”
These three days were a dance of sharing and revelation, his past for tidbits of hers. They’d come to an easy alliance since the afternoon sitting by Bermon village.
“Why not tell me about these broken ships?” she suggested. “Your famed Ragnar Lothbrok camped here, no?”
“It was a base camp for his raids, but that was long before I was born.” He paused to follow two dragonflies at the river’s edge. “He led thousands of men, and he fathered great warrior sons.”
“You revere him.” Safira angled her face to his, searching for eye contact he wouldn’t give. “I think you wish to be like him.”
“He was a great warrior.”
“He was a plague.”
He understood the disdain in her voice. What enriched his people was a blight on hers. Vikings deserved their reputation. Northmen from one generation to the next had pillaged Paris to the bone. Now they lived as uneasy neighbors. The maid had sound reasons for thinking ill of his kind.
“Ragnar Lothbrok was the past. As you can see, no one has used the camp for years.”
“No one uses it because Vikings rule this land now.” She slanted a smile at him. “No need for Vikings to steal from each other.”
Her gentle humor was infectious. He could tell her the season of raids was changing, and that Vikings did turn on each other, but the river was calming. So was this moment with Safira. He would savor it.
“I’m surprised you’ve not seen this place before.”
“I’ve never been west of the Epte River.” She spun a slow circle, taking in trees taller than Greek pillars, her dirt-smeared arms stretching wide. “I imagined something different.”
“What did you imagine?”
She stared into the forest, twilight limning her profile in gold. “Death, but what I see is...beauty.”
“An end for one is a beginning to another.”
Wisps of hair blew across her mouth. “You sound like a court philosopher.”
Each time she spoke, he gathered little facts about the Paris maid. Trust was growing between them. Not once did he touch her. Male wisdom told him Safira wanted him. Her hot glances. Eyes dark with longing. Wetting her lips when he was near. There was no denying her reaction to his kiss at the Cailly River. It had rattled him too.
Men, young and old, often made the mistake of forcing themselves on the fair sex, when casting a net of desire drew a woman to him. A quick tumble sated simple hunger. Deep, sensual connection with a woman was a long, perfected art. It should never be rushed. The feast would be worth the wait.
Sleeping with Safira was the worst. The first night had tested his restraint. The next night he’d taken first watch, lying beside her after she was asleep. He cultivated patience, as fine a weapon as any sword.
Shading her eyes, Safira checked land and sky. “With the sun there and the river winding that way—” She finished her rotation, facing the camp “—Paris would be—”
“Rurik.” Thorvald crashed through the grass with the pack horses. “Erik says there is a monastery nearby known for its beer. I could ride there and procure some for us.”
Safira slipped off her ankle boots. “The Abbey of Saint Wandrille.”
“You know of it?” Thorvald let the docile horses drink.
“Through trades when the abbot came to Paris. Beer from Wandrille Abbey is called the beer of kings.”
Thorvald hooked a thumb in his belt. “Then we must have some.”
Gathering her hem around her knees, Safira stepped down into the river. She waded out and bent low, splashing water on her knees.
“Ride to the abbey,” Rurik said to Thorvald. “Take the beer. Enough for tonight and no more.”
“Christian holy men... Skinny necks and skinny legs, good for nothing but cracking their bones in half.”
Safira dropped her hem, horror writ on her face. “Please. I beg you. Do not harm those men. They are gentle souls.”
Thorvald grunted, folding ham-thick arms across his chest. His bearded war axe gleamed from its place of pride strapped across his back.
She rushed to shallow water, looking to Rurik. “You must order him not to hurt the monks.”
“Our provisions are low. We won’t be able to replenish our supplies until tomorrow.” In Rouen.
“But tonight, you will fill your bellies with beer.”
Thorvald chuckled. “Not a bad idea.”
Her glare bounced from the braided twin to Rurik. “I am serious, Viking.”
“So am I.”
Rurik fingered the axe tied to his thigh. Since setting foot in Longsword’s land, he had a care with every village. Safira’s trade for three days’ food spared them from causing trouble. The Sons’ coin purses were scant. They couldn’t make fair purchases. What money they had was spent on the ermine. Hunting for meat was a long and sometimes fruitless labor.
Stealing was easy.
“Thorvald will take only what we need,” he said.
“But he will not harm them.”
Thorvald’s chin jutted stubbornly at her. “If they resist, they’ll feel the bite of my blade.”
“What good does it do to spill their blood?” she argued. “They have done nothing to you. Vikings once drove them from the abbey. It was years before they returned.”
Rurik was unmoved. “Now they live under Viking rule.”
Safira was just as stubborn. “The Treaty of Saint-Claire-sur-Epte means Vikings protect them.” She inhaled deeply, her eyes looking heavenward as if seeking patience. “At least think, what will happen if you harm these monks or if they die. Who will be left to brew more beer?”
“A fair point.”
Thorvald’s mouth twisted. “You’re going to listen to her?”
Yes, he was. Her passionate plea on behalf of useless monks amused him as much as it intrigued him. She was Hebrew yet she spoke strongly to save these Christian holy men.
“Your people make no sense. You build more houses of stone for monks than you do for your kings. It’s too much power in the hands of weak men who have forsaken the sword.” Rurik grinned at her, pleased with his logic.
Wet skirts clinging to her legs, Safira stood her ground. Her mouth opened, and he was ready for a fine retort about living by the force of his hand. Instead...
“But you will not let Thorvald harm them.” Her voice was confident. Brightness shined in her eyes, the same gleam that showed outside Bermon when she said she was safe with him.
“He will not touch your holy men,” he drawled.
“What?” The smash-faced giant blustered. “Now she has a say about our raids?”
“It’s beer. Go steal it. One look at you and they’ll piss where they stand.”
Thorvald grumbled and collected the pack horses, his eyes shooting daggers at Safira.
“And Thorvald...take Thorfinn and Gunnar with you,” Rurik said. “Let them do the talking.”
The giant lumbered up the bank, yelling, “Gunnar, Thorfinn. We ride to the abbey.”
Safira bent over and wrung out her skirt. “I can only wonder why he has not cracked my bones.”
“Because you’re not a skinny-legged monk.”
She dropped her soggy hem, her laugh shaky. “I have proven myself valuable, no?”
He wouldn’t let on how valuable. It’d go to her head.
The corner of his mouth twitched against his will. “You’re a fair to middling travel companion.”
“I think you like me, Viking.”
Legs brown from the sun, feet pale in ankle-deep water, Safira was a wild creature, a woman of the land, free and beautiful. She was growing on him. That too was against his will, but he didn’t fight it. Men and women danced an ageless mystery. An undeniable weave. What went on was as sure as seasons passing. A farmer never questioned harvest or a hunter his bounty... They feasted.
His time to enjoy his prize was coming. Tonight.
Thorvald, Gunnar, and Thorfinn galloped north to the abbey, their horses pounding a thunderous noise.
Safira frowned at their departing backs. “Stealing from these monks is not good.”
“Why?”
“Because you reap what you sow.” Her lilting accent was solemn. “Your pagan gods must have laws about that.”
“Laws? No,” he said, extending a hand to her, which she took. “Odin rewards clever thinking and courage. A man must know what he wants—” he hauled Safira onto the bank “—and take it.”
Her bare feet bumped his boots. She stiffened. Dirt-smeared nose and a sheen on her cheeks, Safira enchanted him and she irked him. The maid had to feel the same strange teeter of attraction and repulsion to an abrasive Viking. It was written on her lips, soft and pliant, balanced by the glower in her eyes. Neither wanted this seed growing between them.
“Is there ever a time Vikings don’t use force to get what they want?”
“I have not used force with you.”
“That is different.”
No. It wasn’t. When it came to Safira, restlessness hummed inside him. So did a finer point that needed sharpening.
“Do we speak of Vikings and Christians?” he asked quietly. “Or of you and me?”
Safira’s pulse ticked fast on the base of her throat. Standing this close, the top curve of her breasts filled his lower vision. The tender fruit flushed, the sight feeding his lust.
“Are you telling me Christians have never used force to get what they want?”
Her eyes widened. “That is not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.” His thumb stroked a blue-green vein on her wrist. “Tell me, have you ever been hungry? Ever wrapped your feet in rags so that someone you loved could wear scraps of leather for shoes instead of you?”
Safira’s face clouded. He’d revealed too much to this woman with piercing amber eyes. In their depths, emotions warred as a gentling wind blew off the Seine, twining strands of ebon hair across her cheek.
Holding her close, he marveled at the pale underside of her wrist. “I wonder, until you were in Sothram’s outpost, did you ever suffer? Ever go without?”
Pinging taps came from Erik starting a fire. The noise was distant and lulling, like the peaceful river and the horses munching grass. Though they were at odds, he breathed the same air as Safira, needing it as much as he fed on what went on between them.
“Tell me, are the ships left here about hungry people seeking food?” She searched his face, meeting his handhold with a firm grip of her own. “No. These ships were about one thing. Viking greed. Nothing else. I will not cry for you. You and your people have lived by bloodshed.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Take away your sword and what is left?”
“It is my sword that protects you.”
Her face tilted as if she would kiss him. Plush, tempting lips spoke inches from his. “So you have said, but without it, who are you, Rurik of Birka?”
Mouth clamped shut, he let her go. Her question stung yet he couldn’t say why. He didn’t need to explain himself to a spoiled maid of Paris.
“I have seen many things in your eyes when you look at me. Greed among them. Be assured, you will be well-paid for my safe return.” Safira gathered her shoes, her profile a tumult of emotion. “What goes between us is about silver and gold. Nothing more.”
The reward. They’d not spoken of it since their first night together.
Head high, Safira walked barefoot through the grass. Her ebon hair hung down her back, bound in two places by fluttering white wool—the strips she’d thought he’d use to tie her up. His gut twisted at her proud retreat. He wanted the reward, and he wanted her.
He opened his mouth to call Safira back and say...what?