by Gina Conkle
There was no reason why she couldn’t do it again.
Chapter Eighteen
He disliked monks. Thorvald was right. Skinny legs. Skinny necks, a waste of manhood scratching in their gardens behind stone walls, giving edicts to men, yet not once lifting a sword to defend much of anything.
Except for Abbot Ebbo of Rouen. Thick shoulders filled his plain, brown habit. Eyes watchful, his large hands clasped low in front of him, hands that looked comfortable with a weapon. The same could not be said of the three scrawny men fidgeting around him. Their nasal voices droned on, humming in the irksome way flies buzzed around a man’s ears.
Rurik wanted to swat the nuisance that was Dom Bertulf, the hook-nosed monk whining to the jarl.
“My Lord Count, the bell had rung for evening prayers when a braided beast crashed through our doors.” A shaky finger pointed at the Forgotten Sons feasting on bowls of fruit, bread, and cheese.
“That would be me.” Thorvald’s jaws worked the plum slice he popped into his mouth.
“Duly noted,” the jarl said dryly.
Vlad’s men snickered and tucked into fresh platters of bread a thrall set before them. They sat on the opposite side of the hall, facing the Sons. Monks clustered like lost sheep around Abbot Ebbo, their brows furrowing on unwashed faces. Did they expect their complaints to be taken seriously? Real men defended what was theirs. They didn’t whine about it.
Abbot Ebbo was the exception. His face was a mask of fortitude. A worthy adversary if he took up the sword. Was he also a worthy man in a war of words?
“Those two were with him.” The good Dom pointed at Gunnar and Thorfinn before launching into the horrors of Vikings demanding two small casks of Wandrille Abbey beer.
Vlad sat at one end of the jarl’s table, his elbow propped on wood, a horn of ale dangling from his fingertips. His bored stare drifted to his lounging men. Eight of them in all. Most of them Rus by the flat planes of their cheekbones save one with a thin, black moustache, marking him as from a Khanate tribe.
Rurik’s attention swung to the Forgotten Sons picking at their food. Five of them. Erik was missing. Likely sleeping off last night’s excess. The hall still smelled of Midsumarblot revelry, of smoky pork and spiced mead. The carcasses were gone, but fat drippings shined on fire pit stones. Giggling thralls scrubbed benches and tables with sand at the far end of the hall, and this morning Ademar sat between the jarl and Rurik. The seating arrangement couldn’t be good.
Ademar whispered behind his hand to Rurik. “Whatever you do, do not stare at Bertulf’s hairy toes.”
Rurik choked on his watered ale. Setting aside his cup, he coughed into his balled fist while Ademar slapped his back. All eyes were on him and of course, his were on Dom Bertulf’s feet. He couldn’t help it. Big furry toes hung over leather sandals a size too small.
Ademar grinned behind his hand. “I had to say something. You looked like a man who feasted on brine.” He chuckled low. “You should be smiling after last night. I heard my bed knocking the wall.”
He scowled, ready to tell the jarl’s half-brother what he could do with his spying. “Safira—”
“Is here.” Ademar pushed up from his seat. “Safira. Come join us.”
Mouth pursing, Dom Bertulf paused his rant against evil Viking raiders. Safira eyed the Forgotten Sons and let the leather curtain drop.
“Pardon my interruption, Lord Ademar, Jarl.” She folded both hands against her skirts, her voice subdued. “I will join the men as I have not eaten yet.”
“Please. Sit beside Rurik. Astrid,” Ademar called across the hall. “Some of the lingonberry bread and butter for Safira.” Then to Safira “I recall you enjoyed the bread last night.”
Head bowed, she took her seat. Rurik was stiff in his chair. He didn’t trust her meekness.
“Carry on, Bertulf,” the jarl said. “You were close to the good part of your story...where Vikings threatened you with their words.”
Chuckles rippled through the hall. The Dom pushed up on the balls of his feet, his cassock swinging against spindly shins. Safira sat with both hands in her lap. Her silence suited Rurik for now. It wouldn’t last. She craved conversation with him as much as he did with her.
It was part of their weave. Even their words belonged to each other.
Gyda set a plate of lingonberry bread and a crock of butter before Safira. Eyes downcast, Safira buttered her bread. Gone was last night’s fine lady. She would hardly be noticed save the red silk poking up from her bodice. A leather belt cinched her undyed tunic, and she’d tied her hair in two places, at the nape and lower down her back, the same as when they journeyed.
“It’s all bluster until Ebbo speaks,” Ademar said quietly for Rurik. “He’s the Abbot of Rouen and, for the time being, Wandrille. Wandrille’s abbot died last winter and the bishop has yet to name the new abbot.”
“Who is he? He has the bearing of a warrior.”
“He was. A great one. Served two kings of Paris until his family was killed years ago. Then he devoted his life to the White Christ. He brews excellent cyser, throws a spear with deadly accuracy, and I count him a friend.”
“Who killed his family?”
Ademar’s eyes slanted at Rurik. “Vikings.”
Rurik’s spine hit the chair. Ebbo would have a say if he got the land or not? A fate to be decided over the theft of beer? He wanted to howl against rule of law. No blood was shed. The worst that had happened was a bent door hinge. If it had been Vlad or his men, blood would’ve spilled. Lives would’ve been lost. His father had to be laughing at his good luck.
Was Safira laughing too? She’d warned him. But her profile was a delicate line, a fringe of jet-colored lashes dipping low against tanned cheeks. Where was the woman who kicked dirt at Sothram’s shin? The woman who boldly challenged him to a duel of trading skills in Abbod village? She nibbled a piece of bread, spine straight, head downcast. The corners of her mouth pinched. Safira was up to something.
“What say you, Rurik of Birka, to the crimes you and the Forgotten Sons have been accused of?” Longsword’s voice beckoned from the left.
The riddle that was Safira this morn would have to wait.
“Everyone knows we took their beer,” he said and gave his attention to the monks. “I will pay twice what the caskets were worth and see the blacksmith about forging a new hinge for their door.”
“Sounds like fair payment,” the jarl said.
Abbot Ebbo’s bald pate dipped. “I thank you for making restitution for the wrongs done to my brothers.” His voice rumbled as deep as Thorvald’s. “The greater concern is that you might be their overlord and your men their guardians.”
“There will be a test of battle, a holmgang, between Vlad—” Longsword extended his left hand “—and Rurik.” He stretched a hand to the right.
A holmgang, a common means for Vikings to settle disputes. The fighter whose blood first touched the ground was defeated.
“Because you will not fight,” the jarl went on. “Vlad will fight on your behalf.”
Ebbo’s stone-faced glance went from Vlad to Rurik to Longsword. “You will decide the overlord from this battle?”
“Yes. Tomorrow’s fight will be a uniting of Viking and Christian.”
The good abbot snorted at that. “I’m more concerned about the soul of the man you would put over these good monks.”
“And I’m more concerned about his might,” the jarl sneered. “While your testimony is welcome, the final decision rests with me.”
Bemusement flickered in Ebbo’s eyes. His sandaled feet spread wider. “We welcome your spirit of cooperation and respect for the church, jarl. I make note of it when I send my reports to the bishop.”
Truth boiled in Rurik. He could tell the good Abbot their fates would worsen with Vlad. Monks going into the forest to harvest mushrooms would neve
r come back. Men sleeping in their beds would not wake up, their throats slit in the night. Vlad was a rabid dog who did not care about the rights of men.
Ademar sat taller in his chair. “Do not forget my father built many stone churches in tribute to your God.”
“And then he called for sacrifices to your Odin before he died,” the Abbot shot back. “My brothers from Wandrille Abbey need to know they will be safe under Viking rule.”
Longsword steepled his fingers. The abbot’s veiled warning about letters to the bishop didn’t appear to bother him. Instead he asked, “Rurik, how do you answer their concerns?”
All eyes were on him. Two of Vlad’s feral-eyed men fingered their knives. Bjorn and Gunnar stood beside a post, marking the warriors across the room. Rurik fought well with a sword, not words. But a new skill was demanded of him—to be a leader of fighters and peacekeepers.
“I have been told a man reaps what he sows.”
Three monks craned their necks at the Viking quoting what must be hallowed words.
The good abbot nodded sagely. “You are familiar with a Godly tenet. Then you will know there is a time to judge every deed.”
“My men were hungry,” Rurik grated. “Our provisions were running low.”
“Thus, you needed...beer?” the abbot countered.
Vlad and his men snickered.
Safira stirred in her seat. “Father Abbot, if I may speak.”
“Granted.”
“I was traveling with these men.” When Dom Bertulf’s scowl darkened, she rushed on, “They rescued me from a cruel fate.” She linked both hands like a supplicant about to pray. “I will not bend your ear with my sorry tale in the face of such important matters as stolen beer.”
Rurik’s legs tensed. Her breezy tone was familiar. Haughty and quick. A verbal punch was coming.
But...” Her voice trailed lightly as her gaze swept from one monk to the other. “We were terribly hungry and thirsty.”
“You let yourself be ruled by the flesh—” Dom Bertolf stepped forward “—and broke the sanctity of holy ground...for what? Something to drink? These men are little more than outlaws.”
She smiled sweetly. “Good sir, I know I am a simple woman, but please tell me, isn’t there a tale of King David taking altar bread at the tabernacle of Nob? A holy place, no?”
The Dom frowned. “There is such a story, but that hardly equates to Vikings plundering Wandrille Abbey.”
“As I have heard the tale, David and his men were outlaws, on the run from King Saul. They took consecrated bread from consecrated ground.” She rolled her shoulder in a Gallic shrug. “Yet, these Vikings are lawful men. I would have a care if I were you. David became king of those priests, and this man, Rurik, may one day be your overlord.” She paused, her face a picture of innocence. “There is a strong connection between the two, no?”
Bjorn, Gunnar, and Thorvald grinned. So did Ademar, Longsword, and yes, even Abbot Ebbo.
“What kind of unnatural woman are you?” Bertolf blustered.
“A learned one, sir.”
Rurik grinned, familiar with the bite in her voice.
Abbot Ebbo set a hand on the Dom’s shoulder, guiding him to step back. “You make a fine point, Lady. Jarl Longsword has heard our complaints and now will make his best judgment.” He gave the jarl a pointed stare. “I ask that you keep me informed.”
“I will—”
“Jarl!” A voice yelled from outside. Footsteps pounded. A panting housekarl called out at the entrance. “Your ships are on fire. Men have been sighted in the southern field. They’re heading to the forest. Five men are chasing them.”
The man in the doorway was Soren, leader of the housekarls.
Longsword shot up from his chair. “Saddle my horse,” he yelled to a housekarl who trailed in after Soren. To Soren, “What is their number?”
“Ten, maybe twelve, but more are waiting in the forest.” Soren marched in, a spear in one hand, his shield in the other. “The sun shined off their helmets at the edge of the woods. At least five.”
Every man was on his feet. Thralls cleaning the tables stood alert, their faces to the jarl.
Ademar jerked his head at the leather-weave curtain, where a housekarl was on guard at the gervibur. “I’ll get your sword and shield.”
The housekarl stepped aside for Ademar, holding the curtain for him to pass.
“Do we ride with you?” Vlad spoke to the jarl, fingers snapping for his men to come.
“No. You and your men will stay here and guard Rouen.” Longsword accepted sword, shield, and helmet from his brother. “You know what happened at the last attack. Do what you must to protect the village.”
“Jarl, what do you expect of us?” Rurik and his men lined up before the jarl’s table.
“Get horses and weapons. You ride with me and Ademar.”
The men bolted to action. Vlad’s lips curled against his teeth, the barest show of distaste at being left behind. He pivoted on his heel, barking orders at his men as he led them outside.
“Bjorn, see my horse is saddled and brought here. Gunnar, wherever Erik is, find him and send him to me now. He will stay behind and watch Safira.” With the orders given, Rurik took Safira by the hand and pushed past the leather-weave curtain. He charged down the hall with her in tow.
Inside the room, their scent hit him. Her sex and his. The bed was made, the shutters open. All hints of last night should’ve been gone.
Was he that attuned to her?
He jammed his sheathed sword over his shoulders. There were bigger matters to attend.
“Thank you. For what you said out there on my behalf.”
“You’re welcome.”
She was solemn, but terror flickered in her eyes. Safira tried bravely to stand tall but her fingers shook hard. When he eyed them, she clamped both hands together.
The sheath’s buckle jingled from quick fastening. “I can never repay you.”
“Is it enough to satisfy this bargain of ours?”
“Safira.” His voice rose with stern warning. A shake of his head and, “We will speak of that later.”
Her cheeks paled on later. The room was thick with unspoken things. Voices shouted from the hall, the clamor of men ready to chase and kill. Rurik collected helmet and shield, his pulse bouncing for the hunt.
“Rurik! We ride!” Ademar’s bellow carried from the hall.
Rurik was already striding out to meet the men. He was one foot through the doorway when Safira collided into his back. Small, soft hands banded his upper arms.
“Come back to me.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Erik will watch over you.” Rurik spun around and cupped the back of her head. “If anything happens to me...”
The dreaded words spoken, he swooped low and kissed her. This was nothing kind or gentle. Lips and teeth mashed. Harshness and fear mingled. She clung to him, her mouth as demanding as his until Rurik released her. Her feet unsteady, she set a hand on the wall and watched him exit.
She was alone.
Men...they rush to battle and limp home, if they return at all. Savta’s words from long ago.
This could be their end.
Gathering her skirts, she sprinted down the hall. Legs pumping hard, she raced past benches and tables, heading toward daylight bursting through the hall’s open doors. Horses and riders amassed outside. Midday sun gleamed off shield bosses and helmets. A command was given. Hooves thundered from the warrior throng tearing down the southern road, dirt and dust spraying in their wake. Mothers clutched their children close. Geese scattered. Rouen’s merchants paused to squint at the departing warriors.
Safira held on to the carved lintel frame. Everything—land, men, women, even love—came at a price. Jarl Will Longsword would demand his due. Rurik wasn’t here to simply defe
nd land. He was here to expand it.
“I have never become accustomed to the sight of my son riding off to fight.” Astrid shaded her eyes. She watched the horses and riders charge into the southern forest, a man’s blue tunic dangling from her arm.
“Your son?”
“Yes. Soren. Leader of the housekarls.” The matselja smiled, pride etching lines at the corners of her eyes.
“Is he a...thrall?”
“No. My son is a freeman.”
A family passed before the jarl’s hall, the matron smiling and waving to Astrid and Safira. An older, balding man in plainer clothes tagged along behind, carrying a basket brimming with cabbages and kale. Slaves abounded on both sides of the Epte River, but if Safira counted, she’d say more lived here.
“What about Soren’s father?”
“Halfdan died of a fever when Soren was young. We were never married. Now I find comfort with an old farmer, the father of Katla who made the glass bead earrings you wore last night. She sells them in the market.”
Safira eyed the southern road. The forest swallowed the last rider. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what? Watch people I love ride off to fight?” Wheat-blond wisps fell across age-lined cheeks.
“Forgive me. I should not question your ways.”
Astrid’s laugh was kind. “I do not mind. My answers are an older woman’s gift of conversation. You can decide to keep my words or not. But today I cannot speak long. Today is for laboring.” She sauntered into the hall, speaking over her shoulder. “Come with me. There is something I must show you.”
She followed Astrid past columns carved with the faces of Norse gods. The matselja dropped the tunic onto a table and crouched low to stir a stick in the fire pit. Orange embers glowed. Astrid pulled a palm-sized hunk of green glass from her apron pocket. It was like a ball cut in half.
“Something tells me you have not used this before.”
Safira knelt before the fire pit. Astrid passed the green glass to her, and she tested its weight in her palm.
“What is it?”
