by Gina Conkle
“I doubt you can make such a claim of love.” She waved dramatically at grain fields and sunshine. “You haven’t spent even a full summer with him. That’s not enough time to know.”
“I do know.”
“A little time away and suddenly you know all,” Mother hissed. “Do you think you are the first woman to fall for a man’s handsome form?”
This was a new development. Pain flashed in pale brown eyes. Lips flattened, and the powerful spice merchant’s wife showed a chink in her armor. She excelled at giving advice and direction. But falling for a man was...unpleasant terrain. Messy.
“What goes on with Rurik is about more than his handsome form.”
And what she would do next had to be about more than a man. She’d learned much since the Saxon’s outpost: Viking words...lots of them, the best way to smooth wrinkles from a tunic, how to save a man’s life, and how to save her own. The last lesson was a gift from Rurik. Her eyes pricked. Tears threatened to fall. All these years she’d drowned in bland acceptance of the path others chose for her. Not anymore.
“I will no longer allow you to barter me, Mother. I will have a say in my future.”
A bitter laugh filled the room. “You made sure of that when you handed over your maidenhood to that Viking.”
“Because it was mine to give. Not yours to sell.”
“Bah!” A beringed hand sliced the air. “To think, you could have married a prince of Burgundy. Everything has a price, but you sold yourself for a false dream of love.”
Safira fisted the bed furs with all her might. “There is nothing false about it. Rurik loves me and I love him!”
Sun glared sharply on her mother’s gold headdress. Cool calculation shaded light brown eyes. “We shall see.”
Chapter Thirty
Rurik took his seat at the jarl’s table, and the Sons took their seats at tables facing the fire pits. Their faces drawn, they tucked into the light fare Gyda set before them. After the attack, they’d scoured the southern forest, chasing Vlad and his men. Rurik had stayed the first night with Safira, joining them on the next two to hunt for his father.
Vlad’s men were good. Burying the carcasses of rabbits they’d trapped for food. Burying their fire rings under dirt and fern fronds. He knew he’d been close to their camp the third night. Vlad and his men hadn’t built a fire, but the imprint of their shod horses left a clue that the Sons were close on their trail.
It burned that he hadn’t killed Vlad in the battle for the land. Rage seared deep, charring what goodness lived inside him. That flame of hate twisted in dark places inside him, taunting him that he should’ve killed Vlad when he was a boy. Norns kept weaving the vilest pitch-black thread with Vlad.
Some men were never meant to be fathers.
Standing before the jarl’s table, Reuben of Alzaud, a man of stature but not great height, gave his thanks to Longsword. Dressed in red and black robes that reached mid-calf, he snapped his fingers twice. One of the men from his retinue came forward, bearing a hefty coin purse. The fat offering rolled off the servant’s hands, clinking loudly on the jarl’s table.
“Please accept my token of gratitude for giving safe shelter to my daughter.” Rueben of Alzaud’s voice tinged with knowing, one man of power to another. His manner was learned and even. His bare head and trimmed beard showed as much black as grey.
Longsword toyed with the leather tie binding the purse. “I accept your gift. As you know, I learned the truth about Safira the day you arrived. No harm came to her except for the unfortunate attack.”
“And we are grateful that she is recovering. One of the women in your household has proven highly skilled in healing.”
“Astrid,” Longsword supplied.
“Yes. I would like to reward her as well. With your permission, Count.”
The jarl smiled at the Frankish title. “You may, as long as you let your King Rudolph know he should look east for the root of your family’s troubles, not west.”
Rueben’s smile was an even show of teeth. “For the cause of peace between our people, be assured, I will.”
An untouched plate of food sat in front of Rurik. He toyed with his knife. Tapping the curved tip on the table. This was what he’d wanted. None of it felt right. He and Longsword were beasts of war, put here to keep men like King Rudolph and Reuben of Alzaud safe from attacks from the sea. The fathers and grandfathers of the Vikings gathered in this hall did this very thing...provided protection for gold and silver. They took what they wanted and left.
Until the Franks offered land.
Yet, the Franks still hid their daughters.
Jabbing the curved tip into wood, the riddle of him with Safira unfolded. Most of the Franks didn’t want their seed mingling with Vikings any more than Vikings wanted Frankish seed. Love and lust sowed itself between two unwilling sides. The Franks would be the fine-dressed neighbors, contending with Viking barbarians at once breathing at their door and protecting it.
All this fine reasoning didn’t mean a thing to his heart. Neither did land. Nor gold.
Rueben of Alzaud watched him. The merchant flicked two fingers, and an attendant stepped forward, struggling with the weight of the chest he carried. Alzaud’s dark eyes bored into Rurik as the attendant grunted, huffed, and dropped the chest in front of him. Coins jangled and wooden dishes rattled.
A man got what he deserved. This was his rich reward.
Why did it feel like he was given ashes?
Alzaud stared at him, leaning forward a fraction as if to peer into the marrow of Rurik’s bones and ferret truth from tale about the rough Viking from Birka. Dark fatherly eyes took in the arm ring. Three wolves were carved in silver. Longsword’s wolves. Rurik was now the third highest man in Rouen.
He had what he’d sought. Land. Fame. Wealth.
“Aren’t you going to check the contents?” Reuben asked.
Rurik stirred in his seat. The silence was suffocating. All eyes were on him. Gunnar and Thorvald stopped eating. Wide-eyed thralls waited in a line against the wall, trays and pitchers in hand. Thorfinn’s face pinched with...disappointment. Erik scowled at Rurik as if he clearly favored Safira over a chest brimming with gold. And Bjorn...the giant measured him without judgment, stroking over-long whiskers since he was too long from a shave.
Rurik flipped open the lid. Gold coins glared at him. Hundreds and hundreds of them. It would take a man all day to count the wealth. Thumb and forefinger plucked a shiny piece and held it high, an old coin from the Frankish Merovingian kings.
“Do you find this...acceptable?” Alzaud’s voice dripped with hidden meaning.
The real question was Are you willing to trade my daughter for a chest of gold? Everyone knew that was the truth.
“Because if you do,” Alzaud went on. “I would like to take Safira home. Now.”
Rurik dropped the coin into the chest. His wounded leg throbbed and ice closed hard and cold around his heart. Safira was better off without him. Safer. The wound she recovered from proved that. But another truth came to light.
Today a father bought distance between a low-born Viking and his highborn daughter.
At least that’s what he tried to tell himself, because the ugly truth was worse.
Rurik sold the woman he loved.
He snapped the lid shut and pushed up from the table. “It is acceptable.”
Without a word, he limped out of the hall, his newfound wealth in hand.
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 lo
osely 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 dec
ision.”
“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.
