Kept by the Viking

by Gina Conkle

  Chapter Seven

  “I’d wager my best ivory we’ll be attacked on the Fecamp Road.” Erik stroked his horse nibbling a patch of grass.

  Gunnar scratched his chest the way men do when they wake up from a long nap, except this had been a midday stop after hours of hard riding since sunrise. Nothing to these men, a little tiring to Safira and the pack horses. They’d stopped near a village called Bermon, a bustling place three or four times the size of Abbod. By the slant of the sun, they had been riding south to southeast.

  Her ears pricked at talk of the Fecamp Road. Most travelers glided into Paris on the Seine River. Travelers from Wessex who wished to journey to Paris on horseback took the Fecamp Road.

  “The outlaws are long gone. Rollo took care of them,” Gunnar said.

  Erik plucked a blade of grass and set it to his mouth. “Outlaws and stragglers fester here. Word is Longsword wants Breton lands to the south and all this—” his arms swept over rolling meadows and dense forests “—north of Rouen is neglected.”

  Thorfinn had removed the furs from the pack horses when they’d stopped. Now his careful hands ran over the troubled horse, checking here, stroking there. His light touch was a conversation with the four-legged beast in a language only he and the horse knew.

  Safira sought a shady tree and cautiously checked her bandaged knees. The wrappings were tight. She’d ridden comfortably today thanks to the Viking. Dropping her hem, she settled in the grass and folded her legs beneath her. If Rurik had ill-intent, would he have bothered to bind her sores? The Viking was not unkind. None of them were.

  Erik and Gunnar ambled over to Bjorn and Thorvald. An axe throwing contest was afoot. Sipping from her water pouch, she tried hard not to dribble water down her chin. Rurik was coming. Helmet dangling from his big, battle-scarred hand. Sword angled across his impossibly broad back.

  “Outlaws, beware,” she said under her breath. “Stay away or it will be your last day.”

  “You look well.” His voice was pleasant.

  “And you look wet.”

  Rurik was the cleanest of the lot because he’d doused himself in a stream. He’d scraped his jaw too. Mostly. A few blond-brown whiskers defied his blade. What would it be like to kiss him smooth-faced? Her heart tripped. Last night’s kiss...she’d never acted with such abandon.

  His mouth’s harsh slant eased. “I took the chance to wash myself since I didn’t get to last night.”

  “Because you were being nice, trying not to scare the Frankish woman.” She took another drink. He’d slept beside her fully clothed too.

  Rurik chuckled and braced a hand on the tree. “Let us agree to a truce.”

  “A truce?” She sealed her water pouch and set it aside. “Are we at war?”

  His shrug was easy. “We are traveling companions, and I would have some peace.”

  “That’s why I’ve been sitting over here, quiet as a mouse.”

  “Something tells me that goes against your nature.” His grin turned lopsided and enchanting.

  A Viking...enchanting?

  Head bent, she rolled her eyes. The abduction had made her soft in the head. From Bermon’s open gate, a heavy wooden-wheeled ox cart lumbered down the road. Elaborate Viking carving on the side was a sign of the owner’s wealth. The driver waved to Rurik, the distance too great to exchange words. Rurik waved back.

  “Now that you have checked on me, Viking. Be assured I am safe and well.”

  “That sounds like a dismissal. Yesterday in Sothram’s yard you said being at my side was the safest place. Having a change of heart?” Storm-blue eyes pinned her. There was mischief in their depths.

  Was he daring her to idle a summer afternoon with him? Impossible. Butterflies hovered over dandelions near her feet. She plucked bits of grass and let the blades sift through her fingers. This would be a good time to ask Thorfinn if the pack horse had recovered and if they could move on.

  “Your tongue doesn’t seem to work. Must be from ill-use,” he teased.

  She blushed. Hotly. Could feel her skin flame. Rurik spoke of conversation and last night’s carnal kiss.

  “I’m trying hard to forget that I was...naked with you.”

  “I’m not.”

  She scrambled to her feet because sitting at his was a disadvantage. She’d never be able to intimidate him, not with her nose level with the wolf on his chest. But, she’d not let this pass.

  “You don’t scare me, Rurik of Birka. This menacing flirtation of yours won’t work. You promised me three days and I’ll hold you to your word.”

  He laughed outright and repeated menacing flirtation under his breath. Hair still wet from his dip in the stream and his clothes dusty, he was...approachable and disarming.

  “I’m not here to menace anyone. Or flirt.” Rurik reached into his helmet and pulled out two short strips of the wool. “I came to offer these to you. For your hair.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You did?”

  “I like your hair down but a braid or tying it is better. Otherwise your first time combing it will hurt.”

  She touched the wind-blown mass. She couldn’t be sure what shocked her more: The Viking’s compliment or that he gave a thought to the knots being combed out. Her hair flared off her face, a full-bodied mess. There was already so much of it, but road dust thickened the tresses. Nothing less than a patient attendant combing it with olive oil would save her hair.

  Yet, the Viking looked as if her jet-black, tangled waves were magnificent.

  Speechless, she accepted Rurik’s gifts. Arms bent to her nape, she wrapped the cloth twice and tied it off.

  “We’ll be here a full day, possibly the night.” He nodded at Thorfinn rubbing down the snickering pack horse. “If we’re not careful, that horse will go lame.”

  “You could buy another horse, couldn’t you?” She pulled her hair over her shoulder and wrapped the second tie farther down her tail of hair.

  Rurik’s eyes narrowed on her hands. “We could. I have a few peppercorns left for trade.”

  “Peppercorns? I thought you traded all of them?”

  “No. The widow was...generous.”

  Her fingers slowed on the second knot. “Because she thought you’d visit her.”

  Rurik reached for her left hand. His thumb rubbed her fingers. He frowned at the faint, white line a missing ring had left on her finger.

  “Christians wear rings on this finger when they wed.” His brows were two slashes over his eyes. “Are you married?”

  She tried to yank her hand free, but Rurik’s fingers clamped hers. His nostrils flared and color darkened his skin. Why did it matter?

  He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and gave her a shake. “Answer me.”

  “No. I’m not married.”

  “Then why the ring? Slaves don’t wear rings.”

  “It belonged to my grandmother. I used it to barter for my life,” she said, glaring back. “Satisfied?”

  Rurik let go of her. The butterflies were gone, and the summer day was less sunny. The men kept up their axe contest, oblivious to her and Rurik. She paced in the tree’s shade, aware that her gait was exactly like her mother’s, a revelation that struck at her heart and loosened her tongue.

  She swiped her palm across her forehead and paced. “The ring was Savta’s.” At his confused look, she explained, “Hebrew for grandmother but everyone calls her Savta.”

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Her pacing stopped. “What do you mean?”

  “Telling me something about who you really are.”

  “Because you don’t believe I’m a thrall?”

  “I know you’re not a thrall.”

  Her Gallic shrug was her answer. She wouldn’t confirm his suspicion. Trust wasn’t that deep between them.

  “Truly, Viking, yo
u are free. I am not.” She peered at the Forgotten Sons cheering Thorvald’s well-aimed throw. The braided giant roared his victory, both fists pumping the air as Bjorn thumped his back. “You and your men have a good life. You go where you want when you want. None gainsay you. And when you want to leave, you do.”

  He motioned to a shady spot. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Is that an order?”

  “It’s a request.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “So you can attack me with your questions?”

  “I don’t attack you.” Rurik sprawled in the grass, crossing his legs at the ankles.

  She planted both hands on her hips. “Really...”

  His laugh was rich. “Would you believe I came to converse with you for the sake of it?”

  “No.”

  “Or that I have another gift for you?”

  “Beyond the hair ties?” Her voice pitched with disbelief.

  “Yes.” He reached for his helmet.

  She took a seat in the grass, facing him, sitting taller to see what was inside his helmet. Rurik extended his hand to her, a small knife in his palm.

  “The land between here and Fecamp Road is thick with thieves and outlaws. I want you to have this. For your protection.”

  She took the knife. It was hardly lethal, closer in size to what kitchen maids used to pare fruit or gut small fish. Fraying leather wrapped around the tang. By the nicks and dull edge, the knife was quite old.

  “You are my protection, Viking.” She handed it back.

  “You don’t want it?”

  “You have been most generous today.” She smiled, touching the wool fluttering at her nape. “Please don’t think me ungrateful. If you ask me to cut thread or pare fruit, I would use the knife.” She shook her head emphatically. “But not to harm another.”

  “Even if they were coming after you? Or someone you loved?”

  She drew her knees up under her chin. “They already did.”

  A quiet moment passed with Rurik’s keen eyes searching her before he tossed the knife into his helmet. The clank of iron startled birds in branches overhead. When he faced her again, his focus was brighter than the sun and more beautiful. Tender. He shifted their conversation, whiling away the afternoon with her, sharing the wonders of a Byzantine circus. True, he was dressed in black with a snarling wolf on his chest and his hands were strong enough to crush a skull.

  He was a Viking, and he was a man.

  She knew which of the two sat with her in that meadow.

  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.”