Kept by the Viking

by Gina Conkle

  “I always will.”

  “Not if you have a wife.” She picked at a seed, her silence shooting flaming arrows of guilt.

  This was unsteady territory. Sitting with the woman who owned his heart, yet somewhere in Rouen walked another who expected to share his future. Worst place for a man to be.

  “Safira—”

  “There is something important I must tell you.”

  He hitched up his knee, preparing for an earful about Lady Brynhild. “What is it?”

  “It is a message from your father.”

  He tossed the pear core into a bucket. “You mean Vlad.”

  “Yes. Vlad.”

  Safira was within reach yet a gulf spread between them, a chasm of the heart that he’d never given much thought to until this moment. He’d bedded women. Not once did he care about the status of their parentage. Or what they thought about his. None had ever asked. He’d ridden. Traveled. Fought. Cared for his brothers-in-arms, the Forgotten Sons. They were the sole family he’d needed.

  But a hole spread beneath his breast bone. He rubbed the ache with his palm, but it wouldn’t go away. He was...

  Hollow. Empty. A need yawning inside him...for what?

  For the tender rearing he was certain Safira enjoyed? For a past he could never have? Truth grated as it had never grated before. He was too old to weep about the past, and too young not to hunger for a better future. What could be lit Safira’s eyes. A future fulfilled. One brimming with love...if he kept her. Was that love? Keeping a woman by the might of his hand? But those questions would have to wait.

  Today a son would fight his father. For land, power, and fame. Most of all for pride.

  “What message does Vlad have for me?”

  “When Longsword talked of the land, your fath—” she caught herself “—I mean Vlad, did not know you also vied for the holding.”

  “That doesn’t change a thing.”

  “Of course, it does. He doesn’t want to fight you.”

  Rurik wiped juice-damp fingers across his thighs. “Did he say those exact words to you?”

  “No.”

  “Then nothing changes.”

  She snatched up the red silk underdress and jammed it over her head. “Do you not even want to try for—for reconciliation?”

  “No,” he snorted. “You’re a fool if you think that’s what he wants.”

  Safira pushed up on her knees and shimmied the silk over her hips. “How can you be so cold?”

  His laugh was harsh. “Because Vlad is a master of manipulation. He’d slap my mother one hour, apologize the next. He did it to soften her, to get something he wanted.”

  Sword and shield in one hand, he tossed the leather bags over his shoulder and made for the trap door.

  “I have to see Erik.”

  Safira scrambled after him, yanking the natural-weave tunic down over her head. “Will you consider the possibility that he is not that man anymore?”

  He flipped the trap door open, banging it on the deck. Safira’s jealousy over Lady Brynhild was preferable to this. Stepping onto the deck, he rumbled a curse. Vlad was up to something.

  “Bad morning?” Erik leaned against the mast, a blade of grass in his mouth.

  “Vlad. He tried to infect Safira with a tale of woe and regret.” He scanned Rouen. Crows scrabbled over a fish head on the riverbank. Roads were muddy, air chilly. Heavy clouds blocked the sun, the cold biting his skin. Capes rippled off the backs of merchants and patrons alike.

  Erik gave a nod northward. “‘The thrall alone takes instant vengeance. The coward...never.’”

  “You are quoting the ancients?” Rurik stood beside Erik and faced north.

  Both men stared at the open field above the river where Ivar held court in Midsumarbot wrestling matches. Housekarls rammed tall torches into the ground. Rouen prepared for the twilight holmgang battle between father and son.

  “Don’t let your emotions rule. The time to strike will come.”

  Safira climbed out of the hold and stood beside him on the dock. Gusts chopped the Seine’s surface, blowing her hair across her face.

  “There is something else I need to tell you.”

  “More good tidings from Vlad?” Rurik asked coldly.

  “No. It—”

  “Can wait,” he inserted. “I’m hungry and you must be too.”

  “Longsword is back.” Erik jumped onto the dock.

  “Already?”

  Erik’s smile was lopsided. “It’s midday. Be warned, neither he nor Ademar are in the best of moods. Something about rain dumping on them in the middle of the night.”

  Rurik set down a wide plank from the ship’s rail to the dock. “The cost of being ill-prepared for a sudden chase,” he said, crossing over.

  “I’ll let you talk to him about that.”

  “Is he in the map room?”

  “No. He’s eating.”

  “Good. I could eat a bear.” Rurik glanced behind him. “Safira?”

  Head covered, she tucked errant hair back into her hood. “Go ahead. I will be along.”

  He and Erik marched uphill through Rouen’s mud-slicked lanes to the Longsword’s hall. Inside the hall, the Forgotten Sons dug into wide bowls of porridge, but there was no sign of Vlad and his men. That fact made his day better. Rurik settled his sword, shield, and saddle bags against the giant carving of Yggdrasil behind the jarl’s table.

  “Jarl, Ademar,” he greeted them cheerfully.

  Too much cheer by Ademar’s scowl. “Someone slept well despite the storm.”

  Rurik’s grin expanded. “I did.”

  Gyda set before him fresh bread and a bowl of venison and greens cooked in broth.

  Longsword tore off a hunk of Rurik’s bread. “Eat well. I would have this business of the holmgang settled.”

  “The battle of first blood,” he said, liking the jarl’s directness. “Now that the pleasantries are done, I want to talk about the problem of our recent chase.”

  Rurik tucked into his food and spoke of his ideas to better prepare Rouen’s warriors for long, unexpected chases. The jarl and his brother listened, their occasional grunts signs of acknowledgment.

  Dipping bread into the broth, he paused to check the hall. Safira had not joined him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nine tall torches lit twilight skies. Flames snapped in skirling wind. Housekarls had poured extra seal oil on each pole to ensure the fire didn’t go out. Two men staked the last one, its blaze climbing high above their heads. Rouen’s people sought the gods...

  Bear witness to this battle.

  Farmers and fighters gathered. Matrons and older children filled in the gaps. Christians and Vikings streamed like hundreds of ants to the north clearing, elevated land wide and flat with a drop the height of a man to the river below where frothy water crashed into the bank. Scrubbed faces showed from hoods everywhere. Wealthy men wore capes, firelight bouncing off polished penannular pins.

  Longsword’s chain torque gleamed at his neck, the silver as shiny as the penannular pin on his shoulder. Abbot Ebbo found a place beside Ademar. Gudrun, the towering red-haired seeress with strange, piercing grey eyes, stood on the other side of the bastard brother.

  Bjorn handed Rurik his shield. “Look at that. Rouen’s seeress and the Christian’s high holy man have come.”

  Thorvald whistled under his breath. “Christians and pagans watching a fight together. What’ll they talk about? Gardens?”

  “Ademar takes no chances. He is wilier than his brother.” Rurik slid his left arm into the shield’s leather braces. “It was probably his idea to have Vlad fight on behalf of the monks.”

  “A disgusting choice,” Thorvald spat.

  “A necessary one since none of them will fight.”

  Gunnar spu
n slowly, surveying restless throngs. Housekarls ringed the field armed to the teeth. “Does the jarl fear an uprising?”

  “He wants to entertain.” Erik handed Fenrir to Rurik.

  He took it and raised his sword to moody skies. The weapon felt good in his hand. Fire reflected off freshly sharpened iron. The faces of the Forgotten Sons reflected there too.

  “I cannot speak for the Christians, but the Vikings want to see who is worthy to defend them.” His thumb tapped the edge and a thin thread of blood marked his skin. “Fenrir has a fine bite.”

  Erik’s eyes gleamed with pride. He’d spent the day tending the blade. “It will cut silk.”

  “I only need it to stop one man.” Rurik crouched low, and balancing his sword on his thighs, he rubbed the field’s dirt between both hands.

  On the east side of the clearing, Vlad stood wide-legged and ready, his men milling around him. Sigurd stroked his beard, smirking at the Forgotten Sons.

  Safira squeezed past Bjorn and Thorvald with an eye to Vlad’s men. “They are all with him...the eighth man returned.”

  Rurik stood up, about to ask her what she meant, but heads turned to the jarl striding onto the field, the bright red wool of his cape whipping around him. Arms spread wide, his voice was loud.

  “People of Rouen. Our kingdom is growing. The gods have blessed us, and that, my friends, scares our neighbors.”

  Matrons and children alike nodded. Thick-chested farmers unafraid to take up weapons and fight gave grim-faced agreement.

  “We are buffeted on all sides.” The jarl’s voice rose above the wind. “Skittish Franks on one hand, a hateful Breton queen on another.” He paused, grinning. “We have yet to hear what Wessex thinks of us.”

  Laughter rolled through the onlookers. Wind blustered, toying with the jarl’s braid. One fist struck high and Will Longsword spun a slow circle, taking in his people.

  “We are Viking. We claim this land. We. Will. Expand it!”

  A roar went up matched by a clamorous wave of pride. Goosebumps spread over Rurik. Housekarls thumped axes on shields. The Sons raised their fists too, bellowing their approval. The appeal of land was growing on his men. Viking to the bone, Rurik stood taller.

  These were his people. This would be his home.

  Longsword’s open hands bid for quiet. “A kingdom is only as strong as the men who hold it. We are here to see who the gods deem worthy...to bear witness to the holmgang battle between two worthy warriors.” He scanned the wide ring of faces. “Tonight, one will bend his knee and give var, his vow to fight for us. The reward of land will make him a chieftain serving me...serving us.”

  Rurik stood wide-legged, his heart full. The Sons faced him, their eyes bright with respect. Years of friendship and loyalty weren’t wiped out by his one misstep of deception. At his side was Safira, his raven-haired warrior of wit and will. Her soft presence had nurtured a seed inside him and tenderness had grown. She’d shown wisdom and cunning in dire circumstances, never faltering, even defending him before the jarl and Rouen’s Christian holy men. His morning doubts at forcing her to stay washed away in the fervor surrounding him.

  Frankish by birth. A Viking maid by choice. His choice. Safira would come to accept it.

  “The matter of the land and this fight will be different. It will not be ’til first blood falls on this field. Instead, these men will have one pass of the hourglass—” the jarl’s open hand pointed to Soren holding an hourglass “—that is the time two warriors will have to show us who is worthy. But this is not a fight to the death because Rouen needs warriors.”

  Nods of assent rippled through the vast circle of Vikings and Christians. They were united in the need to stamp out the Breton Queen. To bless the fight, Gudrun began a slow walk into the clearing, dark green skirts molding to her long legs. She carried a bronze and copper distaff in one hand, a thick rope-like white wool string in the other.

  Safira touched his arm. “Who is she?”

  “Gudrun. She is a volva, a seeress.” Rurik spoke quietly. “Though she uses a volur’s distaff.”

  At Safira’s confused glance, Bjorn whispered, “A volur...a sorceress.”

  Owlish amber eyes sought Rurik. “You do not have to fight your father...it is not too late.”

  Gudrun stopped, her strange grey stare taking in Safira and Rurik. Safira trembled against him. A squall knocked back the seeress’s hood. Long red hair streaked with grey knotted at the crown of her head, the rest falling long as a horse tail down her back. Unfeeling, ageless eyes locked on him.

  Cool sweat trickled down his spine. Was there a message in her eyes? The volva faced the skies and stretched her left hand high above her head. Keening winds howled. Slowly, she sliced her palm with the metal tip of her wand. Red blood seeped into the white wool she held.

  Even the heartiest men shivered.

  “Rurik. Vlad. Come.” The jarl beckoned.

  Mud squished under Rurik’s boots, and icy air snapped his bare arms. Vlad strode to the center, his eyes boring holes in Rurik. Impassive. Hard. Eyes that willed the son to see the father as he once was—not as he was now. Scarred. Limbs heavier from too much feasting. A long-sleeved tunic covering him from the summer storm.

  Gudrun fisted the string sopping up her blood. Her voice rose with familiar words for all to hear. “‘Wealth will pass. Men will pass. One thing alone will never pass: The fame of one who has earned it.’”

  The crowd ringing the field dimmed. Light rain sprinkled Rurik’s cheeks as he stared at his father. Winters past blurred...his mother weeping in the night...the harsh, hungry seasons before they recovered from Vlad’s desertion.

  He adjusted his grip on his sword. Battle’s copper taste flavored his tongue. The anticipation...the want to kill.

  The same was in his father’s face.

  Vlad’s lips curled against his teeth. Nostrils flaring, he spread both arms wide.

  Longsword stepped between father and son, his voice low. “This is not a battle to the death. Your pride? Hack it to pieces, if you want. But I need you both.” His gaze swiveled between them. “Tell me you understand?”

  Vlad grunted. Rurik gave a single nod.

  “May the gods be with you.” Longsword pivoted to the volva. “Bless the field and let’s get this over with.”

  Gudrun’s fist unfurled as the jarl exited the circle. Eyes closed, she murmured ancient words, lifting her red-streaked hand to the heavens, an offering to the gods. The storm stirred the blood-soaked string. She let go and it fell to her feet.

  Slashed palm raised high, her mouth moved wordlessly until a low-voiced, “A man will die here today. The gods have spoken.”

  Hair on Rurik’s arms bristled. Every sinew in his body cried out for revenge. The gods wouldn’t determine this fight.

  He would.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Steel struck steel. Bellows rang as father and son fought for supremacy. Men yelled, fists beating the air, the same as when they cheered Ivar the Blacksmith’s wrestling matches. But this was no friendly contest. Red stained Vlad’s tunic. The father swung his sword with all his might, snarling at his son. Sweat and spittle sprayed off his face, but Rurik blocked the blow with his shield.

  Lady Brynhild’s ice-blond head dipped in conversation with Astrid, her cool green speculation on Rurik. Hot bile churned in Safira’s belly. They were far away but she seethed over the woman’s possessive stare. It ate her insides. Fear did too.

  Skin-numbing, icy cold fear.

  Death’s shade lurked in the skies ready to swoop in and take a Viking.

  Swords arced and mud splattered. Rurik gritted his teeth, slicing Fenrir down, knocking a chunk of wood off Vlad’s shield. This was a bloodlust fight to the end. One man would die. Onlookers cringed as thunder cracked and rain fell from the heavens. It pelted Rurik’s face. Arms spread wide, he ro
ared to his gods and kicked the back of Vlad’s thighs. The older man’s legs buckled and his knees hit the ground.

  Rurik stared down at Vlad, encircling him, prowling...the line of his mouth, cruel and violent. It was worse than what he wore when he nearly killed Sothram.

  “He looks like he wants to kill Vlad,” she whispered to Erik.

  “He does.”

  Gunnar and Thorvald watched, faces grim and arms folded across their chest. Thorfinn fingered an amulet hanging from his belt, his smile a fierce show of teeth. None had sympathy for Vlad. None.

  Safira pushed back the side of her hood for a view of Soren’s hourglass. “Bjorn. Can you see the hourglass? Tell me this is done. Rurik needs attending.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Stay. Put.”

  “Look at them,” she cried.

  She strained against Bjorn’s hold, but his big hand banded her arm. Rurik was the clear victor, but his body wore marks of battle. Blood streamed down his left arm. His right thigh slashed, the trousers flapping open. The wound congealed to a shade of burgundy.

  “Think you can best me?” Teeth clenched, Vlad swayed, his voice rising in the wind. “You were weak as a boy. You’re a weak man.”

  Rurik swiped his blade across the side of Vlad’s knee. An artful cut. He did the same on the other knee. The older Viking wobbled, his face a mask of agony. Both legs were riddled with wounds.

  “Two more insulting strikes,” Erik said.

  The Sons murmured agreement, their feral stares locked on the dwindling battle. Rurik circled Vlad with slow, mocking steps.

  Safira couldn’t take her eyes off Rurik. “I don’t understand.”

  “Viking warriors go for the legs first,” Erik explained. “Drive your enemy to his knees. Then give him a death blow.”

  “But Rurik keeps slashing Vlad’s legs.”

  “Grazes, nicks, small jabs. Insults all of them.” Thorvald’s voice swelled with pride beside her.

  Gunnar’s chin jutted at the battlefield. “Don’t you see it? Rurik plays with Vlad. No cut goes to the bone.”

  “But with so many cuts, Vlad will bleed to death.”