Chapter Fifteen
Heads dipped in conversation turned to the jarl’s table. A thrall slicing meat at the center spit stopped sawing. Another balanced a tray on her hip. Housekarls standing guard peeked in the open doorway. Longsword stood up, loose-limbed and a little drunk, casting a chieftain’s stare on the crowd.
“Midsumarblot cannot pass without entertainment.” His voice was power itself. Smooth. Full of authority despite mead’s influence.
Light glowed on blond hair combed back to a braid starting at the top of his forehead, going to the middle of his back. The shaved sides of his head showed no tattoos. Life had marked him, but unlike his brother, no eye could see the jarl’s scars. He would rule and rule well, a big man with bigger ideas.
Longsword’s mouth set...with challenge. “What kind of chieftain hosts a feast and doesn’t provide a skald?”
What was this? Two matrons whispered to their Viking men. Another few murmured from the sides of their mouths. Ademar glowered. The grumbling stopped, but a flicker of a rift showed itself...a thing the jarl knew. Vikings who had recently settled in Rouen gave root to another weed—discord at finding a jarl who made peace with Christians living in the land, a current of strife made worse because the jarl had a Frankish name.
Rurik shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was why Longsword wanted him to marry a Viking woman. The winter attack from the Breton Queen. Food stores damaged. Families killed. The merry, Viking faces he’d seen upon arrival would not cower from trouble, but they would not support a leader they thought less than ruthless. Rollo was Longsword’s famed father, but his mother was a Frankish Christian. None here would forget that fact.
The chair beside Rurik scraped wood.
“I will be your skald.”
All eyes went to Safira. Curious. Lustful. Shrewd and measuring. His Paris maid stood tall, shoulders squared, achingly pretty in scarlet as she stared back.
Ivar the blacksmith, a beast of a man with two maids in his lap, raised his drinking horn. “What does a Christian woman know of our stories?”
Her lips twitched. Safira was likely tempted to inform the oaf that she was Hebrew, a distinction that would be lost on the blacksmith. Instead, she smoothed her skirts and gave him an artful tilt of her head.
“Your jarl called for a skald. A storyteller. He didn’t say what stories would be told.” Safira wended her way around the table and stepped down onto the earthen floor past owl-eyed Gyda. “I wager my stories will entertain you as well, if not better.”
Howls of laughter rang. Rurik tensed, ready to spring from his chair and lead Safira back to her seat, but a staying hand—the jarl’s—stopped him.
“Let’s see what she does,” he said under his breath to Rurik.
Scarlet skirts swaying softly, Safira claimed the center of the hall. She was hypnotic. Her footsteps graceful, she walked undaunted before Ivar and the smirking Viking women in his lap.
“What have you to wager?” The blacksmith boomed.
She smiled gamely at him. “Nothing, but why let that stop our fun?”
Ivar’s hearty laugh was the first to break. Others followed, relaxing in their seats. Safira started a slow trail around the fire pits, her eyes on the crowd. The thrall with the platter on her hip ducked out of her way.
“What do you want?” the blacksmith asked.
“Careful, Ivar,” Thorvald’s voice rumbled. He took a gulp from his drinking horn. “She’s a crafty one. Whatever the wager, I’m sure you’ll lose.”
Ivar’s gaze raked Safira from head to toe. “It’s not a wager until I know the prize.”
Rurik’s hand fisted on the table. He didn’t like Ivar’s brazenness. “Don’t let your appeal with the fair sex go to your head, Ivar. She is with me.”
Safira cast a haughty glance at Rurik. “And she can speak for herself.”
Low male laughter rippled through the room, a brotherhood of understanding in the combat of the sexes. Rurik grinned, saluting Safira with his drinking horn. Vikings, Christians, Arabs alike...the gentle divide of men and women was a game played by the ancients and would be played for generations to come.
The blacksmith nudged the women off his lap. He scooted forward, bracing thick arms on the table. His face was alight with interest...of the male variety and something else. Fascination. It lit like wild fire from Ivar to the rest of the hall. The Viking crowd drank in the sight of her. Necks craned and heads turned for a view of Safira sauntering around the hearths.
“I ask one prize of you. Tomorrow, when Rurik of Birka fights Vlad, it will not be a battle to the death.”
A hum erupted. Safira’s words echoed in Rurik’s head. Win the crowd...
He tried to read the jarl, but Longsword sat with a casual air, eyes on the knife he tapped on the table. The decision to fight to the death or first blood was the jarl’s decree.
“A strange request,” Longsword said. “When you could ask for much more.”
“One man’s treasure is another’s rags.” Safira stood, a prideful supplicant by the fire pit. “What say you, Count of Rouen? Do you agree to this trade?”
“It’s hardly fair. A story for a life.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “You want a bigger prize.”
“I do.” The jarl stared at his blade tip drumming the table. “What can you give in return?”
“Me.”
The knife tapping stopped.
“Safira!” Rurik sprang up, knocking back his chair.
Longsword raised a staying hand. “Let her speak.”
Her gaze didn’t waver from Longsword’s. “I will serve you for one year.”
Fat sizzled on the fire pit. One drop then two. Every Viking in the hall strained to hear the jarl and Safira, but all Rurik could see was Longsword’s nostrils flaring like a stallion scenting a mare.
“Exactly how will you serve me?”
“Why to wash your clothes, of course.”
Roars of laughter broke the tension. Rurik righted his chair, sweat beading his brow. This was a first—sweating over a woman. His heart pounded too as he took his seat, the only one in the room not laughing.
Head shaking, Longsword eyed Ivar the blacksmith. “Can you believe this? She offers to wash my clothes,” he chuckled, adding pointedly to Safira, “but, I have enough people already tending to my clothes.”
“But not enough men tending your lands.” Her head tilted a fine degree. Regal as a queen yet clever as a cat.
“A fair point.”
Chortles settled down in the great room as thralls moved on silent feet, splashing ale and mead into empty horns. This was entertainment to the people of Rouen, but Rurik had had enough.
“I will pay her price in silver ingots...if she loses.”
The jarl waved him off. “Keep your silver ingots. I would hear what Safira has to say.”
Soapstone lamps washed her in gentle light. She pivoted in a wide, slow circle, her voice ringing with purpose to every Viking in the hall. “When you face your enemies, isn’t it better to have all the best warriors ready for battle? To have experience—” she marked Vlad with a respectful nod “—and strength on your side?”
Even Vlad smiled at that.
“Why,” she went on, “would you lessen your numbers with a battle to the death? Over a piece of land?”
Agreement rippled through the hall. Older farmers stroked their beards, respect for the foreign woman lighting their eyes.
“If I grant your skald’s test, who will be the judge?” Longsword asked. “There should be at least two or three.”
Her smile was confidence itself. “Why, your brother Lord Ademar will be the first judge because he watches over Rouen like a hawk. Ivar, the blacksmith, will be the second because apparently he is particular about his stories.” Safira tapped her chin, taking a half turn to the far end of the room. “And Ellisif because she is a fair example of what is best in a Viking woman.”
Ellisif’s eyes narrowed from her place tucked in the crook of Bjorn’s arm.
Longsword thumped the table. “I accept,” he said, then appealing to all. “We agree, the judges are fair and just. While the prizes are not equal, Safira is providing entertainment and wisdom. What she says is true. Rouen is better defended with able-bodied warriors.” He grinned at her. “But if you lose, I’m not sure my clothes will be the same.”
Chortles bounced through the hall, but Rurik sat, grim-faced in his seat. Safira’s lips parted as if ready to give a kiss. For him. She had spun magic between him and his men on their journey from Sothram’s outpost to Rouen, but tonight’s audience would not be so forgiving. Though Safira was Hebrew, the Viking crowd would paint her a Christian. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what she believed in. He’d never asked.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he accepted another truth. How little he knew Safira of Paris, yet he would defend her with his life and spend all his silver ingots from the sale of the ermine to keep her at his side.
“How many stories?” Ivar called out.
“Safira gets one chance,” the jarl said, raising one finger.
Rurik’s hands rested palm down on the table. A current of understanding hummed between the jarl and Safira—a leader in need of harmony with his people doubting the value of Christians living among them and a woman meddling in Rurik’s plans. He couldn’t fault her motive, but the sacrifice was too great.
Fists pounded tables. Wooden cups and plates rattled. Feet stomped the floor until Safira faced the feast hall, her hands raised to quiet them. During the negotiations, the housekarls who’d stood guard at the entrance shut the doors and moved inside. Astrid snapped her fingers and thralls scurried to close the shutters.
“My people have a story of a famed warrior named Samson. A Hebrew like me.” She paused before Ellisif. “And the woman who defeated him, Delilah from the Valley of Sorek.”
Ellisif untangled herself from Bjorn, her face a mask of doubt. But, Safira went on, ambling around the center fire pits, spinning her tale.
“Delilah’s weapons were her wit and her wiles, not sword and shield. She was a daughter of Samson’s enemies in a time when my people had no king. Samson, born of humble parents, never cut his hair...”
Vikings leaned in, scorn melting from the hardest faces. Erik stopped drinking. Vlad rested in his seat, head cocked as if to catch every word. Only Vlad’s watchdog Sigurd wasn’t impressed, if going by the twist of his mouth. Safira went on, spinning a story of the powerful warrior’s exploits and his long, glorious hair.
“His first feat was to kill a lion with his bare hands as if that beast were a lamb.”
She regaled them with Samson’s courage. Laughter roared when she recounted the Hebrew warrior killing a thousand men with the jawbone of an ass.
Longsword whispered to Rurik, “Look at her. She enthralls them with her storytelling. You would do well to keep her.”
“I plan to.”
“Until it is time for you to take a Viking wife. Or you will have no peace.”
A Viking wife.
Hair bristled at Rurik’s nape. He should marry someone of his own people. Safira made a strong argument with her tale of Samson and Delilah—a powerful warrior felled by an enemy temptress. She was his temptress, circling the room, enthralling the crowd, a woman born to feast in higher courts than Rouen. The story befuddled him. Was she telling him to think of her as the enemy?
“The day came that Delilah finally learned the secret to Samson’s strength. It was his hair.” She removed the combs at her nape and shiny black hair tumbled down her back.
“That very night, Delilah waited until Samson was fast asleep. She sneaked out to gather his enemies.” Safira clutched a handful of her hair while her free hand sawed the locks. “When she returned, Delilah grabbed Samson’s braids and shaved his head...”
Matrons nestled sleepy babes in their laps. Farmers held bigger children straining to follow Safira as she strolled by each captivated face.
“When Samson woke up, he was weak as a newborn lamb. He couldn’t fight. His enemies bound him and dragged him away.” Her voice quieted. “They blinded him, beat him, kept him in chains for many, many days.”
“But did he defeat them?” Thorvald called out.
She pivoted to the smash-faced warrior. “Yes. By a great sacrifice. Samson’s enemies brought him out each night to taunt him. This went on for a long time. A season passed and Samson’s hair began to grow. One night as he stumbled from his prison in chains, he asked the guard leading him to the feast hall to bind him between the center posts.” She set her hand on one ash post. “Standing in chains, he prayed for strength and it came to him.”
“He prayed for strength?” Thorvald’s scoffing voice boomed.
“Shhh!” Matrons hushed him.
“Let her finish,” a housekarl called out.
All eyes were on Safira.
“Samson pushed with all his might—” her arm strained against the post “—the columns shook. He pushed again and this time the hall tumbled down on Samson and his enemies.”
The room was silent as she looked to Thorvald.
“Blood shed on behalf of another,” she said in a solemn voice. “A sign of great sacrifice.”
The second law of the Forgotten Sons.
“Sounds like revenge.” Ivar raised his horn high.
“Sounds like a man should be careful about the woman he brings to his bed,” Ademar jested.
Nervous laughter followed. Several men cast furtive glances at female companions before burying their noses in their cups. Most were hooked by the tale. Vikings were bred on revenge and sex. Two passions to feed the crowd. Thralls who had tarried to hear the story rushed to fill drinking horns. A sleeping babe was awakened, his howls rising to the rafters. The mother rocked him in her seat, calming him.
Ademar rose, drinking horn in hand. “My brother asked me to give fair judgment, and I say Safira won.”
Fists thumping the tables mingled with shouts of approval. Ivar and Ellisif lifted their horns, adding to the cries supporting Safira.
The jarl raised a hand to quiet the hall. “It is decided. Safira has won. Her request will be honored. Father and son will fight for the land but not to the death.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Thralls rested earthen pitchers on their hips and mothers shushed their children.
“We are Vikings,” he went on. “Surrounded by enemies and nervous allies. The Franks gave land to my father, a token reward if he would be their watchdog...but we grabbed more.”
The crowd was with him. Farmers and housekarls stood shoulder to shoulder, nodding. Smiles grim, these men savored battles. None were afraid to fight.
Longsword’s smile was feral. “And we’ll take more land by our strength and unity. We are one!”
“Strength and unity!” The roar shook the rafters.
Safira scampered to the jarl’s table through smoke thickening with doors and shutters closed. She rushed to Rurik’s side as he stood to full height. Vlad pushed up from the table, his icy stare marking Safira before meeting Rurik’s eyes. The feast hall rang with calls for strength and unity, but none could be found between father and son.