Page 48 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Five Years Later

“ M ama! Come quick! You must see this trick.” Alva hopped from one foot to the other, her blond braids dancing in sunlight.

Ilsa set down her basket of pine cones and rushed after her daughter. In the clearing, three pine trees had been the target for axe throwing and knife tossing. All were aiming for runes that had been carved in the trees many years ago.

A girl clad in leather trousers and a blue wool tunic spun twice and a knife flew out of her hand. It stuck the top of pynn , the old rune.

Turid clapped her hands. “I meant to do that.”

“Of course you did.” Trygg gave her a side-smirk and ambled to the tree. He pulled Turid’s knife free and tapped it to the gouged spot. “Like you meant to put your blade here—” he tapped another gouge “—and here—” he tapped a third gouge “—and here.”

Turid danced a jig, laughing as was her way. She did a lot of it when in the company of Trygg. The two were quick to challenge each other in every form of competition, but youth and size hampered Turid. Throwing knives was one skill she mastered, and the girl wasn’t afraid to preen.

Ilsa walked to Bjorn and stretched out on the blanket beside him.

Legs crossing at the ankles, he was leaning against a log.

Dappled sunlight covered them. Alva found Ilsa’s lap and nestled in.

She reached a plump pink-tipped finger and traced a green stone on the torque around her mother’s neck.

Ilsa had worn the symbol of her authority because Midsumarblot trading was upon them.

This escape to the grove was an opportunity to take their ease from the harbor’s bustle.

Bjorn rubbed the small of her back, contentment on his face.

Her belly was swelling with another child, their second that would be born of her womb.

Turid had become their daughter when the maid’s mother passed from this world.

Older boys sought Bjorn daily. Mornings on the practice field had become their habit.

Eventually, Vikings, young and old, came to Vellefold.

Ivory hunters, merchants, rope makers. A blacksmith, a silversmith, even flax farmers.

Life had not been easy. At times, it had been fierce and passionate, both in anger and in love between the hersir and his jarl wife.

They were partners in rebuilding Vellefold from the ashes of loss.

“Mama, will you pass your torque to me?” Alva asked.

She kissed the top of her daughter’s head.

“I will pass it to the person who earns it.”

Alva curled into a ball on her lap. “Do I have to learn the old runes and the new like Turid and Trygg?”

“It would be the wise thing to do.”

“All that learning…” the little girl sighed.

Bjorn tweaked his daughter’s nose. “I did it. You will too.”

Alva’s eyes narrowed, ready to test her father. “Tell me what pynn means. It is carved on so many trees.”

The powerful hersir glowed with happiness. He glanced at Ilsa, an intimate smile on his face.

The timbre of his voice softening, he answered his daughter, “It means joy in the old runes, little one. And the reason you find it on so many trees is because, long ago, I found it here with your mother. We are rich with it.”

Yes, they were.