by Gina Conkle
“Rurik.” Longsword took a draught from his drinking horn, giving the board his final consideration before pushing off the wall.
“Jarl.”
Longsword grimaced, his eyes intent on Safira. “Jarl is not necessary within these four walls.” He set his horn in an ornate silver stand. “I see you brought a guest.”
“This is Safira. She is my favored...companion.”
A smile ghosted her lips. Was she pleased he didn’t call her his thrall? “My lord,” she said, tipping her head in deference.
Longsword gave a cursory nod and braced his hands on a long table in the middle of the room. The tips of his fingers pressed hard, turning white. The hairs on Rurik’s nape bristled. Something wasn’t right. The jarl’s stare was guarded and his manner on edge.
Was there a secret within the walls?
Rurik had never been inside the room, but he knew of it. Will Longsword set strategy and made his plans here. Behind the jarl an ox hide map hung from ceiling to floor. The Seine River snaked off the sea. A smaller river, the Epte, cut the hide in half. Christians lived on one side of that river, Vikings on the other. Runes marked places on the map, but his knowledge of runes was basic. One place was obvious—Paris, the island citadel in the Seine with its two bridges.
Ellisif unfolded herself from the table, flicking ice-blonde hair over her shoulder. Tiny runes were tattooed across the bridge of her nose, a thin line down the center of her chin, and two lines flaring high off her cheekbones. A single larger rune, algiz from older times, was visible between her eyes.
“Rurik.” Her cool green stare landed on Safira. “I am Ellisif. The jarl’s favored...housekarl.”
“Housekarl?” Safira echoed.
“A common warrior of no special rank,” she explained in a throaty purr.
The jarl eyed Ellisif and nudged his head at the door.
“It looks like you and I are being dismissed.” Long legs encased in black leather ranged across the room. “Come. I’ll take you to your room.”
If Safira was nervous, she didn’t show it. Standing proudly, she gave her thanks to the jarl and Ademar. Only the pink tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip betrayed her nervousness before she disappeared into the hallway.
Ellisif tarried at the lintel. She glanced at the hnefatafl board, her smile full of mischief for the jarl. “Your move.” And she shut the door.
Longsword’s mouth twisted in his trimmed beard.
Ademar chuckled. “Women.” Looking to Rurik, he held up an earthen pitcher from a table tucked in a corner. “Mead to quench your thirst after a long journey?”
“No. I prefer to take my bad news sober.”
Ademar poured mead for himself. “You see, brother, that is why Rurik of the Forgotten Sons is the right man.” Ademar tapped the tattooed side of his head. “He is smart enough to read the lay of the land. Or at least he can read you.”
“Not well enough.” Longsword’s gaze flicked from Rurik to his brother.
Ademar’s shrug was light. A wealth of unspoken words between brothers.
Hairs on Rurik’s neck stood on end. “Something is wrong.”
“Wrong? You could say that.” Longsword walked the length of the table. “Your taking the land was supposed to be quiet. Without trouble.” He dusted a clean corner. “I can’t afford more trouble than I already have.”
“What kind of trouble are you talking about?”
“Did you or your men steal beer from Wandrille Abbey?” Longsword asked.
The beer. He gritted his teeth, Safira’s warning echoed in his head. You reap what you sow, Viking.
“Our supplies were running low. My men took two small casks of beer.”
The jarl’s fingers drummed the table. “You stole from monks.”
“No blood was shed.”
“That’s not the point,” Longsword bit out.
“Then what is?”
Ademar circled the room, humor dancing in his eyes. “Get ready. You’ll like this.”
Longsword glanced peevishly at his brother and retrieved a rolled-up ox hide from a shelf on the wall. “My brother finds humor when I’m roused from my bed before sunrise because Christian holy men demand an audience.”
“The monks from Wandrille Abbey are here?”
“Yes. Three of them cower behind barred doors in Rouen’s abbey to avoid our pagan Midsumarblot feast.” Longsword set the ox hide on the table and began untying it.
“How did they get here before—” Rurik stopped himself and finished, his voice flat “—the coracles on the riverbank.”
Ships favored by Gaels and their holy men. It made sense the holy men here would craft the same puny, basket-like vessels. The monks must’ve got in their boats and rowed upriver all night. Right after his men stole their beer.
“See what I mean, brother?” Ademar’s grin was a show of teeth. “He’s smart.”
“I need more than smart and good with a sword.” Longsword gave the ox hide a snap and it unrolled across the table. “I need someone skilled with people. A talent for war is one thing, but I can’t have monks complaining to Christian kings east of the Epte River how Vikings are treating them badly. It’s a battle cry for Christians.”
Rurik set a booted foot on the table’s bench. He braced a hand on his knee, leaning in to see the new map. “I’ll pay these holy men and be done with it.”
Ademar’s laughter rose to the rafters. “Oh, it gets better. Wait for this.”
“You will hear their complaints with me tomorrow morning.” Longsword smoothed the hide’s curling edge. “It would be wise of you to reassure them.”
“Of what?”
The jarl planted both hands on the ox hide. This map was similar to the one hanging on the wall except more markings had been inked on the leather. A dotted line cut the hide in half with circles to the south, symbols of scattered Gaelic, Breton, and Celtic tribes with markings of Germanic tribes deeper in Frankia.
“You must convince the monks that you are not a Viking beast...that you are a fair and honest leader.”
He winced at that.
Longsword’s finger drew a long oval on his map. “Because those Christian holy men live on the land I had planned to give you.” He paused, his smile rueful. “You would be their protector.”
Rurik scrubbed a hand across his face. Ground was shaky beneath him, all because Norns were threading a challenge in his life’s weave. He would meet it. Safira, the Sons, the land and now these monks. All were threads of responsibility. Ademar hummed a humored tune and poured more mead for himself. Longsword traced a line on his secret map, starting from the Seine’s low, tight curve.
“Your land would have been from here, to Jumieges Abbey, to the Arelaune forest all the way to the east-west road by Wandrille Abbey.”
“I will reassure the holy men.”
“It would be good for your men to be here too.”
Two things bothered Rurik in that moment. He hadn’t told his men and the jarl obviously expected them to be part of this plan, and Longsword kept using words like the land I had planned to give you and your land would have been here as if the matter was not concluded. Powerful need surged in him, from the soles of his boots to the sword strapped to his back. His fame, his story would be written on this map. The land would be his. Best he get on with telling the truth.
“The Forgotten Sons may or may not stay.”
“I was under the impression your men would continue to serve you.” There was hardness in Longsword’s voice and cold disappointment.
“I am their leader, but we have worked on near equal standing. The Forgotten Sons are wanderers...too restless to live in one place for long. I won’t order them to stay.”
Ademar moseyed up to the table. “Have you asked them? Part of your appeal is your men. You’re a small band of
warriors, yet a well-known force to be reckoned with by any measure.”
“Will you ask them?” Longsword’s voice was the soul of patience.
“Yes, but you must understand, in our years together, we’ve shared our spoils evenly. I’ve never taken a leader’s portion. My taking the land changes everything.” Rurik shook his head. “They can live there, but the holding would be mine.” Rurik waved a hand over the map. “Would you consider giving them holdings of their own?”
Longsword and Ademar exchanged speaking glances. The jarl’s mouth firmed. “I will consider it, though I prefer to have a seasoned fighting force working as one rather than spreading you out. I need protection from invaders coming off the sea. The Breton Queen Annick harries me from the south. My spies tell me she wants to attack from the river.”
Rurik studied the map’s snaking blue line. “The same way Vikings went after Paris. Sailing up the Seine River.”
Queen Annick of Nantes, wife of Rognvald, a Viking of Oslo. Rognvald and his Viking men invaded the southern Breton lands, but unlike other Vikings they did not seek to farm or flourish through trade. Chaos and disorder ruled. Christian Bretons fled the land, but a beautiful young noble woman named Annick was caught. Rognvald married her, and that was when the Viking’s troubles began.
Rognvald’s men mysteriously poisoned. Throats sliced while abed.
Skalds whispered of Annick’s blood oath, but to which god?
It was said the Breton woman had bided her time, quietly gathering followers from weak Gaelic and Celtic tribes along the coast. She’d vowed to cleanse the land of Vikings.
“My wish was to have you put two defensive lines in the river...here—” Longsword tapped the Seine above Jumieges Abbey and drew a line east across the land “—and here.”
“It will be done.”
“I had also hoped you and the Forgotten Sons would bring on more men, become a training ground for warriors. With the rich forests, you could have ship builders on the land as well...build a fleet of ships for me. I will need both to defeat the Breton queen.”
Arms crossed, Rurik studied the map, with two points glaring in his mind. The jarl didn’t want to invade Paris: he cared only about defeating the pagan queen to the south. Yet, because of stolen beer, Longsword wasn’t convinced Rurik was the man to keep watch over an important Nor’man holding.
“I have a great many plans. This is one of them.” The jarl tossed a coin onto the table, the tarnished silver spinning on the map.
Rurik picked up the well-traveled coin. A Viking ship was stamped on one side. “A coin of Hedeby.”
“I will mint my own coins and make Rouen a fine trading center to rival Paris. To do that I must have strong fighting men, and leaders who know how to live with Christians among us. There can be no distractions.” The jarl eyed the southern symbols, his mouth a hard line. “Because I will crush the Breton queen and take her land in the south.”
Rurik tossed the coin back to Longsword. “Have you changed your mind? About my leadership here and the holding?”
“It is a consideration. The land is wild...wide open. You would have to camp in the forest until your lodgings are built or seek shelter in one of the abbeys.” His laugh was grim. “I’m not sure the monks would have you, and you cannot spill their blood.”
Rurik waved a hand over the strip of land. “No one else lives here?”
“None. I hope you have plenty of gold. You would have to hire men or build your longhouse and barn yourself...a difficult task if you have no one to support you.”
No one...as in the Forgotten Sons.
Rurik read the hide. The markings on leather stood out boldly. Abbeys, small squares with crosses scattered throughout the land. The Arelaune Forest, a green swath painted on leather. The Seine, a curving blue ribbon.
This was his land.
One small use of force shouldn’t count, but it did in Longsword’s eyes. The jarl, irked as he was about the nervous holy men, was too calm. Rurik had navigated shifting kingdoms enough times to know Longsword was leaving nothing to chance. There was another warrior.
Without looking up from the map, he said, “You have someone else in mind to take the land.”
Laughter and music bled past the jarl’s closed door. Midsumarblot revelers must’ve stumbled into the feast hall. Outside was noisy yet Longsword and his brother were distinctly quiet.
“After the monks were here this morning, it was Ademar’s idea to approach another warrior.” The jarl flipped the coin and caught it. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. “You understand, with the threat from the south, I need to move quickly.”
Ademar stood beside his brother, his face, eyes, and stance mirroring the jarl. It was said Longsword was the iron and Ademar was the sharp edge of the blade, the one to see things done. Both were men of action, but Ademar, a hrisungr, the bush born son of a free man and slave mother, walked a more violent path. The brothers worked in concert from years of knowing the intricacies of the other—like the Forgotten Sons.
Rurik stood tall. “I would fight to the death for this land, but I will not beg.”
A grin common to beasts of war creased Ademar’s face, while stately acknowledgment touched the jarl’s.
“First, you and I have the monks to appease tomorrow morning.”
“My rival for the land. He is here for Midsumarblot?”
The jarl stalled. “Don’t you care to know who I have arranged for you to wed? If you get the land?”
“Not particularly.”
“Lady Brynhild of Fecamp. A beautiful, wealthy widow.” Ademar’s fingers tapped the table. “She agreed to wed whoever wins.”
They’d already planned a fight for the land.
“I have heard of Lady Brynhild,” he grated. “She is the least of my concerns.”
Rurik glared at Longsword. He was not a pet to be managed. It was best the chieftain knew this. Rurik would speak his mind and do what needed doing. For years he was the warrior who went into dark places and came out alive. The jarl’s jaw tightened as if a seed of understanding passed. He lived in the shadow of a famed father and by all accounts was on his way to exceed his father’s memory. With his plan to expand Rouen’s borders, he would. Longsword balanced a warrior’s might with a leader’s skill. He would make tough decisions and not think twice about them.
“The name of my rival?” Rurik asked firmly.
“Vlad of Birka. Your father.”
Chapter Twelve
The woman reflected in polished metal was a raven-haired Viking. Safira’s hair looped in elegant knots at the nape of her neck in the manner of high-born Northwomen. A scarlet tunic dressed her body, the fine weave plain except for saffron embroidery on her sleeves.
Astrid, the woman who’d been pouring seal oil in lamps when they arrived, snapped her fingers. “Higher, Gyda. All the better for the lady to see herself.”
The shy thrall raised a bronze disc the size of Rurik’s shield. Gyda had patiently dressed Safira, combing windblown locks to a shine before twisting and coiling strands into an elaborate display, whispering often, “The lady has beautiful hair.”
Astrid chewed the corner of her mouth, her head tilting from side to side. Ellisif sat on a wide bed covered in mink, waggling a hand over her breasts.
“The silk underdress. It needs fixing.”
“I thought so too.” Astrid bent low and lifted the scarlet skirt. With a careful eye to the bodice, she tugged the saffron underdress until a finger’s breadth of silk showed. “That is better.”
The effect was stunning. Sensual. Alluring.
“I understand the purpose of this tunic...to show more cleavage.” Safira smoothed linen over her hips, her eyes rueful in polished metal. “My breasts will greet people before I do.”
Gyda giggled and ducked her face behind bronze. The quip would’ve had Savta clucking
her tongue and her mother calling for a swath of silk...a play for modesty, yet sheer enough to display her daughter’s charms. For the last two years, Safira had existed for one reason: to tempt the highest bidder into the most advantageous marriage. But with these Vikings, she walked in a half-world, the companion of a highly valued warrior. Not a thrall. Nor a high-born woman.
To them her purpose was simple—Rurik’s pleasure.
The people of Paris painted its folk into distinct places in society, while Vikings embraced shades of importance.
Astrid was an ambut. A thrall born into the jarl’s family, yet of high standing. She wore the same blue as Gyda, but yellow embroidery lined her square bodice and hem. Nor had her hair ever been cut. Keys jingled at Astrid’s waist, signs of her authority to run the jarl’s household and access his spices and wealth. More keys, more wealth. And there was Ellisif relaxing on the bed. She looked comfortable, as if she had intimate knowledge of the room that had once belonged to the jarl’s bastard brother.
“You are pleased?” Astrid asked.
Safira turned her head this way and that, glass bead earrings tapping her neck. “I look like a Viking woman.”
“You look like a woman prepared to find her destiny.” Ellisif was off the bed in one languid move. “Now I am off to find mine.”
Astrid rubbed her forehead. “Yes, there is still much to do before the feast begins.” She stood beside a bronze basin etched with harts and a matching ewer of water. The ambut touched an earthen bowl of fresh green leaves on the same table. “You have mint to clean your teeth. Another tunic for tomorrow on that hook.” Lips pursing, she eyed Safira’s shabby ankle boots. “I will see about finding better shoes for you.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Safira said to the women. “All of you.”
Ellisif opened the door, her hair an ice-blond waterfall rippling down her back. “Save your thanks until after tonight.” The lithe shield-maiden slipped into the dim hallway.
