Chapter Thirty
Rurik took his seat at the jarl’s table, and the Sons took their seats at tables facing the fire pits. Their faces drawn, they tucked into the light fare Gyda set before them. After the attack, they’d scoured the southern forest, chasing Vlad and his men. Rurik had stayed the first night with Safira, joining them on the next two to hunt for his father.
Vlad’s men were good. Burying the carcasses of rabbits they’d trapped for food. Burying their fire rings under dirt and fern fronds. He knew he’d been close to their camp the third night. Vlad and his men hadn’t built a fire, but the imprint of their shod horses left a clue that the Sons were close on their trail.
It burned that he hadn’t killed Vlad in the battle for the land. Rage seared deep, charring what goodness lived inside him. That flame of hate twisted in dark places inside him, taunting him that he should’ve killed Vlad when he was a boy. Norns kept weaving the vilest pitch-black thread with Vlad.
Some men were never meant to be fathers.
Standing before the jarl’s table, Reuben of Alzaud, a man of stature but not great height, gave his thanks to Longsword. Dressed in red and black robes that reached mid-calf, he snapped his fingers twice. One of the men from his retinue came forward, bearing a hefty coin purse. The fat offering rolled off the servant’s hands, clinking loudly on the jarl’s table.
“Please accept my token of gratitude for giving safe shelter to my daughter.” Rueben of Alzaud’s voice tinged with knowing, one man of power to another. His manner was learned and even. His bare head and trimmed beard showed as much black as grey.
Longsword toyed with the leather tie binding the purse. “I accept your gift. As you know, I learned the truth about Safira the day you arrived. No harm came to her except for the unfortunate attack.”
“And we are grateful that she is recovering. One of the women in your household has proven highly skilled in healing.”
“Astrid,” Longsword supplied.
“Yes. I would like to reward her as well. With your permission, Count.”
The jarl smiled at the Frankish title. “You may, as long as you let your King Rudolph know he should look east for the root of your family’s troubles, not west.”
Rueben’s smile was an even show of teeth. “For the cause of peace between our people, be assured, I will.”
An untouched plate of food sat in front of Rurik. He toyed with his knife. Tapping the curved tip on the table. This was what he’d wanted. None of it felt right. He and Longsword were beasts of war, put here to keep men like King Rudolph and Reuben of Alzaud safe from attacks from the sea. The fathers and grandfathers of the Vikings gathered in this hall did this very thing...provided protection for gold and silver. They took what they wanted and left.
Until the Franks offered land.
Yet, the Franks still hid their daughters.
Jabbing the curved tip into wood, the riddle of him with Safira unfolded. Most of the Franks didn’t want their seed mingling with Vikings any more than Vikings wanted Frankish seed. Love and lust sowed itself between two unwilling sides. The Franks would be the fine-dressed neighbors, contending with Viking barbarians at once breathing at their door and protecting it.
All this fine reasoning didn’t mean a thing to his heart. Neither did land. Nor gold.
Rueben of Alzaud watched him. The merchant flicked two fingers, and an attendant stepped forward, struggling with the weight of the chest he carried. Alzaud’s dark eyes bored into Rurik as the attendant grunted, huffed, and dropped the chest in front of him. Coins jangled and wooden dishes rattled.
A man got what he deserved. This was his rich reward.
Why did it feel like he was given ashes?
Alzaud stared at him, leaning forward a fraction as if to peer into the marrow of Rurik’s bones and ferret truth from tale about the rough Viking from Birka. Dark fatherly eyes took in the arm ring. Three wolves were carved in silver. Longsword’s wolves. Rurik was now the third highest man in Rouen.
He had what he’d sought. Land. Fame. Wealth.
“Aren’t you going to check the contents?” Reuben asked.
Rurik stirred in his seat. The silence was suffocating. All eyes were on him. Gunnar and Thorvald stopped eating. Wide-eyed thralls waited in a line against the wall, trays and pitchers in hand. Thorfinn’s face pinched with...disappointment. Erik scowled at Rurik as if he clearly favored Safira over a chest brimming with gold. And Bjorn...the giant measured him without judgment, stroking over-long whiskers since he was too long from a shave.
Rurik flipped open the lid. Gold coins glared at him. Hundreds and hundreds of them. It would take a man all day to count the wealth. Thumb and forefinger plucked a shiny piece and held it high, an old coin from the Frankish Merovingian kings.
“Do you find this...acceptable?” Alzaud’s voice dripped with hidden meaning.
The real question was Are you willing to trade my daughter for a chest of gold? Everyone knew that was the truth.
“Because if you do,” Alzaud went on. “I would like to take Safira home. Now.”
Rurik dropped the coin into the chest. His wounded leg throbbed and ice closed hard and cold around his heart. Safira was better off without him. Safer. The wound she recovered from proved that. But another truth came to light.
Today a father bought distance between a low-born Viking and his highborn daughter.
At least that’s what he tried to tell himself, because the ugly truth was worse.
Rurik sold the woman he loved.
He snapped the lid shut and pushed up from the table. “It is acceptable.”
Without a word, he limped out of the hall, his newfound wealth in hand.