Chapter Three
Rurik removed his helmet, sweat sticky on his forehead. A smithy’s hammer pinged behind palisades spearing brilliant blue skies. Abbod village lay ahead. They’d crossed the north border into Will Longsword’s land, but he’d wager only Christians inhabited Abbod. Thatch roofs peeked above the spiked fence, square structures the Christians favored, not round homes pagan tribes preferred or Viking longhouses.
The Cailly River’s musical rush drifted through trees lining the road. The water invited dirty travelers to take a drink and rest, but he itched to keep going. He had five days to reach Rouen in time for Jarl Will Longsword’s Midsumarblot feast.
“Rurik.” Thorvald jerked a thumb at the thrall. “What’s she doing riding with us?”
“She rides with you because your leader says so,” the maid cut in. “And she has a name. Safira.”
Safira sipped from a pouch, bright-eyed and wind-blown in the shade with the others atop their horses in a broad patch of grass. The lone rider on the road, Rurik swigged water. The battle was coming.
“A woman.” Thorvald chewed the last word. “What about our law?”
“Bad idea having a woman along. Slows a man down.” Erik stated his opinion as fact.
“And they’re weak.” Thorvald grimaced. “Especially the foreign ones.”
Rurik curbed a smile when Safira nudged her horse forward and bumped the giant’s chestnut. She’d long ago given up covering herself. Black wool hung from her neck, the ragged cloak a dusty, twisted coil trailing her spine to her horse’s haunch. Safira’s sorry excuse of a tunic clung knee-high to dirt-smeared legs. She was a sight, sitting tall in the saddle, holding her own with Thorvald. The smash-faced warrior was the roughest of the lot.
“I saved your hides, no?” She smiled at the men. “If I did it once, I may do so again.”
Thorvald howled. “A woman? Save me?” Fist jammed on his thigh, he leaned over in his saddle, the two braids framing his face swinging forward. “You look like trouble.”
“Enough.” Bjorn’s voice boomed. “Rurik says she rides with us. Then she rides.”
Thorfinn inched his steed closer. Intent, hazel eyes sought Rurik before giving Safira a quick assessment. Three silver clips banded his beard’s small braid from chin to chest. His nose hadn’t met with near as many fists as his twin brother, Thorvald.
“The Sons have never harbored a woman before.” Thorfinn’s voice rumbled with calm. “I trust our laws, but I trust Rurik more.”
Rurik averted his eyes, the simple words—I trust Rurik more—scalding him.
“And our law says, No women,” Thorvald grumbled.
“Thorvald.” Rurik’s voice rose abruptly. He gave the smallest shake of his head and the giant fell silent.
Gunnar removed his helmet and swiped his arm brace across his forehead. Born with a face that made women weak-kneed, the flaxen-haired warrior always drew feminine sighs. Rurik waited for tell-tale mooning from the thrall, but Safira was more intent on quenching her thirst than staring at Gunnar while he spoke to her.
“Forgive Thorvald his surliness. He gets like that when he’s hungry.”
Bjorn chuckled. “He’s like that when he’s fed too.”
Laughter rippled through the men. Erik poured water onto his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Rurik,” Thorfinn called out. “The horses need water and rest.” He pointed at the pack horses’ foam-flecked muzzles. “These two are not accustomed to a full day’s riding.”
Bjorn steered his horse to the road. “I can tell you want to keep going, but there is the matter of thirsty horses and hungry men.”
“I know.” Rurik flexed his sore shoulder, an eye to the village. “Thorvald will eat his boot if we don’t give him food.”
Bjorn rested both hands on his pommel. “Do we go to the village for the woman’s sake? Or camp here at the side of the road?”
Raids had dwindled since Rollo’s rule. Norse wolves now guarded lands they’d once invaded. Still, Frankish folk barred their doors like skittish virgins when Vikings came around. Six Viking warriors on horseback breaching Abbod’s gate could stir up unnecessary trouble.
“We’ll camp here,” Rurik announced.
Bjorn got off his horse. “You heard him, men. All of you. To your tasks.”
Rurik dismounted, his wound throbbing when both feet hit the ground. Heat bloomed a wide circle under his vest. He smacked the pained shoulder, but no blood wet his hand.
Safira winced atop her horse. “There is much sunlight. Can we rest, water the horses, and then ride on?”
Shaking his head, Thorfinn kindly took her reins. “I’m afraid not. Rurik has spoken.”
“You say it as if his word is law, no?”
“We share in most decisions, but he has final say. It’s been that way since we were boys.”
Safira leaned forward in the saddle as if to spare her rump. Rurik walked his horse off the road, smiling privately at the maid’s determination to keep going. She held up better than Thorvald, a comparison the warrior would not like.
Or she dreaded nightfall.
“What are these laws you spoke of?” she asked, rubbing her bottom.
Thorfinn stroked the palfrey’s nose. “We have three. The first is, Sons serve each other.”
Thorvald dismounted on nimble feet. “It means work or you’re gone.”
With that parting shot delivered, he led his horse and both pack horses to a rope Gunnar strung between trees. Startled birds flew from high-up branches. Rurik untied his leather bags and sleeping fur from his horse, an ear cocked to Thorfinn explaining their laws.
“The second law, A life saved receives equal reward. My guess is Rurik decided to honor you.”
“Except no blood was shed,” Bjorn put in.
Safira’s rubbing stopped. “What does that mean?”
“The sacrifice must be great,” Thorfinn said. “Bloodshed on behalf of another is a sign of one’s sacrifice.”
“Your third law must be—”
“No. Women.” Erik’s graveled voice rose from the ground where he set rocks for a fire ring.
Rurik dropped his bag and sleeping fur on the ground, Bjorn’s words in his head. Uncover the truth. Extracting information from a man was easy. But a woman untried in battle? Different tactics altogether. He’d watched his ebon-haired riddle all day. Safira was exotic yet thoroughly Frankish. She was also confident, if a touch over-bold. Worthy qualities. She sat a horse well, but her features wrenched in pain as if the saddle had rubbed skin raw in places under her skirt. Equally interesting was her independence. Not once had the Paris maid clung to him during brief water stops.
She could at least need him. A little. Perhaps show gratitude for saving her from Sothram. And until now she’d been blessedly quiet. Too quiet. No man could wrest information from a silent woman. Yet Safira conversed easily with Thorfinn, her skein of black hair falling forward as she hung on his tale of the early days.
“Growing up we helped each other survive Birka.”
She scanned the men, each doing his part to set up camp. “You are all from that outpost?”
“Except for Bjorn. He was born in Vellefold. Came to Birka when he was twelve.”
“I have heard of Birka. A place once known for its iron and fur trade. It houses many Viking warriors, does it not?”
“It did once. Now it’s a dying outpost, feeding on its own people.” Thorfinn fingered his silver beard band, his stare drifting to the forest.
“It has become a rough, forsaken place.”
“Been that way for a long time,” he scoffed. “Birka drew shiftless warriors and berserkers alike.” Thorfinn’s voice scraped harsh notes. “Bored men...ready to prey on the weak.”
“Your fathers did not stop them?”
He laughed without humor. “Never met mine. The only father I met was Vlad, and he wasn’t a good man.” Thorfinn tapped the outer shell of his ear. “He’s the one who cut Rurik’s ear.”
“He cut his son’s ear?”
Rurik ducked his head to hide a smile. The cut to his ear was nothing. Vlad had done worse, but Safira’s shock and outrage filled a spot inside him. Perhaps she’d loosen up and spill her secrets.
Thorfinn spat on the ground. “Vlad turned his back on his family and on Birka. We became a pack of fatherless boys running wild. Rurik often took blows meant for us. That is until the day he beat one warrior senseless.” His smile was a cold glint of teeth. “They left us alone after that.”
“What do you mean, ‘took blows’?”
“Thorfinn.” Rurik toed his leather bag against a rock. “Can’t you see her horse is parched?”
A little information was good. Too much was dangerous. The maid didn’t need to know any more. His past belonged to him. He was the one to ask questions, not her.
Safira looked to Thorfinn. “I could use some help getting down...my legs, they hurt.”
“Ask Rurik.”
“But you’re right here.”
Thorfinn faced the road, his chest expanding with a long-suffering inhale. Rurik took pity on the man. For all his size, his gentle nature got the best of him, but the order had been given. Safira belonged to Rurik. Thorfinn wouldn’t touch her, not even to help her dismount.
Rurik strolled across the clearing. “Need help getting down?”
Her lips pursed. “There is no nee—”
He gripped Safira’s waist and plucked her from the saddle mid-sentence, catching Thorfinn’s long, relieved exhale as he led her horse to the trees. She tried to step away, but Rurik held her in place.
A pretty scowl marred her features. “What is the meaning of this, Viking?”
If she were a cat, he’d say her hackles were raised and her tail was snapping side to side.
“No one touches you but me.”
Hands clamped on her waist began to slide up her ribs. Crude wool rustled, the fabric snagging on his palms. She bristled when his fingers grazed the sides of her breasts before traveling up her arms to her shoulders. Safira’s high neckline gapped, giving him a glimpse of the upper curves of her pale, hidden fruit.
Gold eyes shot daggers through black lashes. “I’d say you are touching me plenty.”
“As long as you understand.” She started to move, but his hands imprisoned her. “Tell me you understand.”
“You cannot mean it. For something as simple as getting off a horse?” Her musical voice pitched higher. “I must wait for you?”
“For something that simple. You’re a thrall. You serve me until I release you to your master.”
Safira’s mouth opened with a retort, but shut quickly as if she thought silence better.
Head angled lower, his mouth almost touched her ear. “Unless you want to tell me who you really are.”
Whispering to Safira was intimate, a mistake by the strong desire to nip her plump pink earlobe. He righted himself and fed on her glare. Lush lips pinched, and he saw it coming, defiance, a spate of haughtiness, challenging his word. She needed to grasp the natural order here—he led, she followed.
“You understand what I’m telling you?” he asked, rubbing her arms. “You obey me.”
Twilight split their camp with sun and shadows. Normally, this was a peaceful hour of the day, a time to sate his hunger and collect his thoughts. The thrall’s mere presence was a shift in the balance of nature. All would have to adjust. Erik knelt beside the stone ring, the steady tap, tap, tap of stone strikes to his iron fire starter sounding while Gunnar and Bjorn dug through leather bags mere paces away. All three men eavesdropped on the battle of words between him and the Paris maid.
Safira’s eyes widened and her voice was light. “So this is how it is.”
He balked. The she-cat was up to something. A wary, “What does that mean?” slipped out.
She set a hand on his chest, her smile close-lipped and crafty. “It means if you wanted me by your side for so much talk, Viking, why not say so? I thought you preferred quiet women. That is what you said at Sothram’s outpost.”
His vision narrowed on her. One foot shifted in the grass from the uncanny sense his world was about to go off-kilter. Because of this woman.
“I like conversation,” Safira chattered on, her accented voice breezy. “A lot, really. I’d be pleased to bend your ear. I have never seen your northlands, and you must have journeyed to many distant places. Perhaps in our conversation, you can begin by telling me of all the kingdoms you have visited—” she patted his chest and leaned close “—and I do mean every place. When you are done, you can tell me of your childhood in Birka and the meaning of this wolf you wear on your leather vest. Why, there is much to discuss, no? With many Viking words you can teach me, the way you did this morning.” Her eyes lit with false innocence. “Tomorrow we should ride side by side...all the better for us to talk.” Words slowing, her voice firmed. “And I do mean talk. All. Day.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He let go of her to chortles in the clearing.
Gunnar and Erik hid their faces, their shoulders rocking.
Bjorn didn’t bother to hide his mirth. “You said she rides with us, which makes her your problem.” Soap in hand, he grinned from ear to ear. “I’m going to the river to clean up.”
Tap. Tap Tap. Orange sparks sprayed off the fire starter. Tiny flames flickered in dry tinder. Erik glanced up, the corner of his mouth hitching with a humored I-told-you-she-was-a-bad-idea message.
“How nice to find a man who wants to talk, a man to see to my every need. Are all Vikings this helpful to women?” Arms folded, Safira asked, “Or just you with me?”
Amber eyes glimmered with I know what you’re after.
The proud angle of her face reached inside him. Dirty in late-day sun, her hair a wild mass of black silk, Safira stunned him. She faced him unafraid. Fierce and clever. But it wouldn’t do for her to have the upper hand.
He grabbed her elbow and pulled her close. “Don’t bait me,” he said, low and quiet for her ears alone. “You won’t recover from my bite.”
The victorious light faded from her eyes, and regret was the heaviness sinking inside him. He’d squashed her will when he wanted it pliable to his. Truth be told, he reveled in Safira’s spirit. He liked her quick mind assembling his motives. It would make the journey...interesting.
She was interesting.
Frowning, he couldn’t decide to kiss the maid or shake her. A little yielding, a morsel of truth from her, and he’d count this conversation a victory. Yet from the moment he’d pulled her free of her horse, Safira had neatly turned this sparring match back on him.
She set a tentative hand on his arm. “Forgive my poor manners. I have forgotten that you agreed to take me on this journey at much inconvenience to you.” The tip of her tongue wet her lips. “My insolent mouth...sometimes it causes more trouble than good.”
Her lyrical accent washed over him. The camp faded, his men, the horses all dimming to nothing with the pressure of her simple touch. Safira’s dust-streaked hair spilled over his hand holding her elbow. He didn’t want to let go.
“Have a care,” he whispered. “Or I’ll find more useful talents for your mouth.”
Safira’s eyes darkened. At the base of her throat, her life vein ticked fast. This was like their tussle in the pelts...a veil of intimacy clouding them, vaporous and thin yet bewitching all the same. His comment was supposed to scare her off. Make sure she kept her distance from him. He needed information, not a supple, sensual woman messing with his mind in the light of day.
Trouble was, to get information from the maid, he’d have to be close to her.
Wood crashed to the ground. Safira flinched and stepped away, breaking the spell.
“Rurik.” Thorvald dusted off his hands over a pile of broken branches. “Is she going to do anything to help? Or have we tossed out all our laws today?”
The braided giant turned on his heel, and Rurik kept his voice level. “Find a way to make yourself useful.”
She rubbed her lower back. Her limbs had to ache from the ride, and he was certain her skirts hid sores on the insides of her knees. He waited for complaints that never came.
“I will work.” She smiled softly, following Thorvald’s charge to the river. “To keep the peace, no?”
Her serenity poured over him, as unexpected as her cunning deflection of his brutishness moments ago.
“Gather wood and then you can rest,” he said, walking with her to the fire ring. “An armload should suffice.”
Erik fed dry leaves to the fire, his black eyes spearing Rurik. Thorvald had already dumped plenty of firewood.
Face set to the trees, Safira stuffed her hair into the back of her tunic, gracing Rurik with her profile. With her arms upraised, grey wool hugged ample breasts. The shapeless tunic couldn’t hide Safira’s curves or her natural dignity. She’d once lived in higher places. He was sure of it. Whenever she talked, her accent spun images of lavish courts and silk-swathed women...women who had wanted him to keep them safe. Not a hero. A protector. It’s what the Paris maid had bargained for too.
He picked up his leather bag and opened it, not seeing the contents he rummaged through.
“Safira.” He liked the way her name felt in his mouth.
“Yes?”
“Stay in my sight.”
She untied her cloak and let it drop to the grass. “Because you fear I will run away from your excellent care?”
“No, because if you go too deep into the woods, you’ll run into Thorvald naked in the river.”
“I’ll keep close.” Eyes rounding in horror, she checked the tree line where loud splashes sounded. “Very close.”
He chuckled and gave up digging through his things. “That’s what I thought.”
Safira set off for the trees, refinement in her walk. Head shaking, he dropped the bag on the ground. Not only did he explain his command—something he didn’t do—but the maid evaded him again. Taking his knife from his boot, he knelt by the ermine bundles Gunnar had left in the camp. He knew no more about her now than he did this morning.
Or did he?
Curious gold eyes, wide and dark in the middle, played in his head. From what he’d said about her mouth? That was an unexpected revelation. He cut long strips from wool covering the furs, the rending fabric a satisfying noise. Four long lengths of cloth dangled in his grip.
A man had many ways to get what he wanted from an unwilling woman.