Chapter Thirty-One
From the shadows of Longsword’s hall, Rurik watched men scurry, rolling barrels and goods in place on the Frankish ship. Alzaud’s men worked under waning sun and torches tied to posts on the ship. On the dock two women tarried. Safira. Her profile against the Seine... She was regal as any queen he’d met. Spine straight. Ebon hair arranged in loops and coils at her nape. Bronze silk wrapped loosely around her head, the hem fluttering over her shoulder. She faced Rouen, her kohl-rimmed eyes vivid from this distance. A hand touched her collarbone. She searched the quiet village where merchants had shuttered their stalls and families were settling in to eat.
His icy heart squeezed tighter. She would not be the woman to sit at his table and feed his children. Another man would have her.
Fists clenched at his sides. The urge rushed inside him to chase after her, toss her over his shoulder, and ride off to the Arelaune Forest with his prize.
Safira was not his.
She’d trusted him to bring her home, saved his life and the Sons, and in return he’d done what? Prodded her for her secrets. Seen her as a thing to be ransomed. Or a reward to be claimed. Either one worked. As long as his greed for land was fed.
Footsteps crunched the dirt behind him.
“It is done. The horses are ready.” The giant of Vellefold watched Safira step into the boat after her mother. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“I took her for my own pleasure and would have kept her.” He ground a pebble into the earth. “It’s only fitting that I let her go.”
“But to see her home—” Bjorn paused, his grimace twisting dramatically “—that rubs salt in the wound.”
“She saved my life. Twice. The only thing she asked of me was safe passage to Paris,” he rasped. “It’s the least I can do for her.”
“And the jarl?”
Rurik’s stance widened. “He didn’t like it when I said we would ride into Frankish lands, but he will get our var when this is over.” Night insects buzzed around them. Toeing another pebble, he ran through every detail in his mind. “And the men?”
“Are ready.”
“They accepted my decision?”
“We are the Forgotten Sons. When you speak, the men hear the echo.”
Men unmoored the Frankish ship. Water rippled out from the dock as the lumbering vessel slid away. Safira walked across the wide deck, her face set to Rouen. Rurik stepped away from the shadows. It hurt, the icy ball in his chest twisting, tighter and tighter, but he needed to watch her watching him. To see her go.
Wisps of mist rose from the Seine. He was dead inside. Cold. This was what the gods wanted, to turn what was left of his heart into a brittle, frosty thing before they ripped it out.
Bjorn clapped Rurik’s shoulder. “Let’s see this done.”
* * *
Safira tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and stood at the rail. Ten oarsmen rowed in the night. They pushed upriver, an arduous task, going against the mighty Seine named for the ancient river goddess, Sequana. The old waters were being difficult.
She was, after all, leaving the pagan Viking she loved.
Each turn of the oars was another stitch sewn in her future. A future without Rurik. Her belly churned at the wrongness. Her body was numb. She couldn’t feel her wound from the arrow which Astrid had seared. The scars were forever hers, marks of the time she was kept by a Viking.
Staring at the river, twilight had darkened to early evening which had slipped into near midnight. Hours she stood on her wordless vigil wrapped in silk, wearing shoes crafted from the finest kid leather. She was safely back to her old life.
Her father paced the deck behind her, telling Bertrand, his most trusted attendant, “I will feel better once we reach Giverny.”
“The men will work all night, my lord. We should get there by dawn,” Bertrand said.
Giverny. The ancient village near the Epte River. Passing it would put them in Frankish lands and far from Viking reach.
A kindly arm cloaked her shoulders. “Come. Sit with me.” When she didn’t budge, he added wryly, “Consoling you would make me feel like a good father.”
She relaxed against him. “You are a good father.”
“Then would you please come sit with me?” His gentle tug dislodged her. “The river will look the same from a comfortable seat as it does standing here.”
“Oh, Father.” Breathing in her father’s patchouli scent healed her. A little.
Stiff-limbed, she let him guide her to a chest big enough to seat them both. Sober-faced men rowed wordlessly, firelight glinting in their fish scale armor. Bertrand tapped one man on the shoulder and another resting against a barrel took his place.
Her eyes were on the passing forest. Trees were thick. Too dark to see what lurked among them. Her father spoke to her of simple, comforting things. An advantageous trade for cinnamon and anise. A costly vial of saffron hand delivered by a Greek friend. He regaled her with her little brother’s antics to avoid his tutor, all to the even swish of oars taking them home.
Six torches had been fastened to ship’s posts, their light dancing on inky water.
But the forest...
Safira’s neck prickled. She hugged her linen wrap tighter. They were being watched. Four-legged beasts? Or the two-legged variety? They were sailing through contested lands. Longsword claimed this wild forest. The Breton Queen called it hers too.
“You should go sleep below deck,” her father said. “Your mother will appreciate you being with her.”
“If she’s asleep, it won’t matter.”
He chuckled. “I should never have let you attend your brother’s logic lessons. You’ve become my least biddable daughter.”
“I have always been your least biddable daughter.”
A father’s love twinkled in his eyes. “And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
She pinched her silk skirt. Why did he have to be so reasonable? And loving? He was always her ally in her mother’s storms, and her opinion was the first he sought when unsure of a spice. Her ability to ferret a spice’s quality was legendary. But who wanted a wife with a good nose?
Men wanted a woman to bear children and keep a home. Not build kingdoms or barter. None except Rurik. He had wanted her at his side to build up his lands in the Arelaune Forest.
That was the crux. Lands for him and Lady Brynhild.
“You know I am different, Father...different than I was before I was taken.” She winced. There was no delicate way to speak of that part of marriage negotiations.
He sighed. “Your mother told me.”
She could guess her mother shared certain details. There were few secrets between Reuben and Rachel Alzaud.
“Then, if you accept my logic, will you accept my intuition?”
“How so?”
She chewed her lower lip. A quick check of the forest. Another glance at the river behind them and, “I fear I made a mistake.”
“Your Viking.”
It was funny how resigned his voice was.
“My Viking?” she asked softly.
He smoothed the front of his robes. King Rudolph wore the same gold trim on one of his robes.
“You are convinced you love him.”
“I know I love him.”
His eyes narrowed to a precise angle. Reuben Alzaud was sparing with emotion, even-keeled and perceptive. She’d grown up reading those angles, seeking to understand his moods and his mind.
“Go on,” she said. “You’ve something to say, though I already know I’m not going to like it.”
He patted her hand. “I’m sorry, daughter, but your Viking doesn’t love you.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. Could he have dealt a harsher blow? Cold, dry pain blew through her, the kind that chapped skin and cut to the bone.
“What makes you say that?” The tremble in her voice irked her. What was it about a father’s assessment that made a grown woman feel like a little girl?
“Because when a man loves a woman, he moves mountains to be with her.” He reached deep into his pocket. He pulled out a balled-up white wool cloth and closed his fingers around it. “If a man knew he had to choose between land and the woman he loved, it would be an easy decision.”
“As in Rurik’s decision to take the gold.”
Light flickered in her side vision. It came from the forest. She squinted at the darkness. Was there a campfire in those trees? This was supposed to be an uninhabited stretch of land because no one wanted to live where Vikings and Bretons waged war.
“The strongest evidence he lacked true love was in taking it,” he said.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d wanted Rurik to refuse the gold, the land, and the requirement for a Viking wife. To marry her instead. But he’d done none of those things. It was equally maddening wanting him to have the land and the wealth, yet wanting him to give them up for her.
There was no common ground.
She pinched a new wrinkle in her skirt. “I promised he would have a reward. It was the bargain we struck.”
“You did. The rider who came gave us that message when he said you were in Rouen.” He sat up taller, checking the forest.
Did he see something lurking there too?
“How much of a reward was my choice,” he went on. “I saw the way he took care of you when you were shot by that arrow. It gave me an idea to test him.”
“And he didn’t pass.” The words were bitter on her tongue. She wanted her father to think well of Rurik.
Lines flared from the corners her father’s eyes. A sad shake of his head and, “No. He didn’t say much. Just took the chest full of Merovingian coins and left the hall.”
“He is a good man, Father. When he was a boy in Birka, he had almost nothing,” she said fervently. “Rurik has had to fight for everything he has. I don’t begrudge him the land.” Her voice pitched higher. “I helped him get it.”
He patted her hand. “I don’t doubt his affection for you. But...”
“But, he didn’t choose me.”
“No. He didn’t.”
They mulled that over in silence. Summer insects flitted around the Frankish vessel, drawn to the torches. Where they sat flames painted her father’s profile orange. He was tired. Worn out and not from the late hour. Her father and Savta had always said wealth was a fortress, but even the best of fortresses could be breached. Riches had made their family a target, and it drove a wedge between her and Rurik.
Her father stood up and opened his hand. “Rurik asked me to give this to you once you were safely home. It won’t hurt if I hand it over to you now. He said something about a second law.” He dropped the burden in her palm. “Said you’d understand.”
The cloth unfurled, and two amber pieces rolled into her lap. She clamped a hand over her mouth. His mother’s treasured amber...ancient stones passed down from his mother’s mother, meant to be in Rurik’s safe keeping.
Now they were hers. Rurik gave her his heart. In his quiet, take first, ask later warrior’s way, he showed his love. Again. She balled the amber in her hand and held it to her chest.
“I’ve made a horrible mistake.” Her voice shook.
“Safir—”
Whistling sliced the air. Flames arced through the blackness, coming from the forest, flying toward their boat. She screamed and grabbed her father.
“Hide!”
They ducked behind barrels. She jammed the cloth-wrapped amber into her pocket. Two oarsmen screamed as flaming arrows sunk into their chests. Three dove for cover at the front end of the ship. Another was hit in the neck. His gurgling cry was lost when he fell into the river with a heavy splash.
Bertrand crouched behind the barrel. “My lord, what should we do?”
Grappling hooks flew through the air and landed on the deck. Unseen men gave a quick pull on the ropes. The hooks dragged across the deck until they bit into the ship’s rail.
Her father opened the trap door to the hold. “Our bows and arrows! They’re below deck. Get them now!” To Safira, “Go. Stay with your mother.”
She was frozen in place. More grappling hooks sailed through the air. Two caught the ship’s rail, and the ship listed hard. She toppled sideways, her wounded arm whacking the side rail. She scrambled to get up.
A thud and the vessel lurched. Her mother’s scream sounded from below.
Someone yelled, “We hit a rock!”
Everything spun fast...a blur of men yelling. Torches wobbling in their hold. The boat jerked through water as an unknown enemy reeled them in like a fish.
“Do the Bretons attack?” Bertrand asked, emerging from the hold with bows and arrows.
“Can’t tell.” This from an Alzaud man brave enough to peek over the rail at the front of the ship. Two men flanked him, their knives sawing the grappling hooks’ ropes.
Voices carried from the bank. Calls for men to pull...in Norse.
The Breton Queen’s husband had been the cruel Viking, Rognvald. Were these his men who now served her? Safira cradled her throbbing arm and scurried on her knees to her father’s side. He was busy passing out bows and arrows.
“I can’t see what I’m supposed to shoot at,” one man yelled.
“Look for the whites of their eyes,” was her father’s answer.
Barrels and chests shifted on the deck. They were halfway to the ship hitting the bank. They lurched hard again. Her body skidded on the deck. Heavy laden barrels rolled dangerously. She scrabbled out of the way, balling up her body to avoid one smashing into her. Her mother’s cries of terror mixed with the whoosh of more arrows raining down on them.
Another barrel rolled, crashing into a small cask. The cask’s coopered wood was too weak. It burst and Frankish gold spilled around Safira’s feet. Merovingian coins.
She picked up one gold piece. “Father. Look!”
Her father nocked an arrow in a bow. “Safira...” His rushed voice trailed off as he aimed and shot at the dark shore.
Her mother’s head peeked up from the hold, tears streaming down her face.
Safira clutched the coin to her chest and ducked down. “Rurik gave back the reward.”
“The blacksmith delivered that cask,” Bertrand said, ducking down as more arrows rained over their heads. “He told me it was iron ingots... I—I didn’t check.”
An arrow lodged in one man’s shoulder. A horrible scraping sound and...
“We’ve hit another rock,” her father yelled. “Men, your swords!”
Two torches wobbled from their moorings. One fell into the Seine. The other toppled and rolled across the deck.
“The ship is on fire!” her mother cried.
Alzaud men grabbed their swords from the seats where they’d rowed. Five of them held their blades, ready to fight. Forms moved between the trees. More than she could count.
Her father helped her mother climb out of the hold. “We have to get off the ship now.”
Safira gathered her skirts to jump over the rail. She gasped. Between the trees... On the chest of two men, firelight glimmered on a circle of iron hobnails—the Forgotten Sons’ leather wolf.
“Father, Rurik has come to save us.”
“Or to kill us,” her mother said, crouching on hands and knees.
“No! Look.” She held up a Merovingian coin for her mother.
“Did he decide he wants them back?” her mother asked.
“Oh Mother.” Safira threw down the coin in disgust and pushed up on her knees. She raised her voice to the ship. “Do not harm the warriors with iron hobnails encircling their chests. Look for the wolf head...they are here to help.”
She couldn’t know if they would listen to her or if they heard her. Flames crackled higher on the ship. A barrel of pitch burst into flames. The Alzaud men jumped overboard and met the enemy in knee-high water. Swords clashed on all sides of the ship. More people ran through the trees, illuminated by fires.
Her father took up a heavy piece of wood that he wielded like a club. “Get your mother to safe ground.”
And he jumped off the ship into the fight.