Page 5 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Three

“ G oing somewhere?” Rurik ambled into the dimly lit barn.

“To finish my patrol.” Bjorn cinched the saddle, and his warhorse danced sideways. The four-legged creature always could sense his tension. Anger sparked off him and nothing less than a cool night ride would quench this fire.

“Alone?” Straw crunched under Rurik’s boots.

“Yes. Alone.”

Freshly harvested hay scented the air, but its sweetness didn’t settle on him.

He’d stalked into the barn after hearing Ilsa’s plea and most of the stable boys had scattered.

Lanky Davyn had bravely stepped forward, offering to ready Bjorn’s horse.

The boy, good with horses and a faithful worker, was a constant presence whenever the Forgotten Sons were in the barn.

Davyn didn’t deserve his ire. He’d make it up to the stable boys later.

For now, he needed to lose himself in darkness.

Rurik staked a spot in the stall. “The southern forest can wait.”

“Don’t try to stop me.”

Davyn’s knuckles whitened on the reins. Shoulders hunching, he pulled a wool cap over a ratty forelock.

Another boy dumped water in a nearby trough and slunk away fast. Neighs and snorts cut the quiet.

Almost a hundred horses filled Longsword’s barn, the heavy wooden structure nearly as impressive in size as his feast hall.

Only desert kings with their thousand-horse stables dwarfed it.

Rurik’s laugh was rusty. “You’re Hel-bent to leave, and here I’ve come to deliver a message.”

“From a certain lady of Vellefold?” he asked, buckling the cinch.

“From Longsword. He wants to see you.”

Muted light slanted over Rurik’s face. His mouth was a calm, cruel line, a natural state for the son of a vicious, Rus-born Viking.

Hands on the saddle, Bjorn exhaled loudly and stared at the wall.

His information about the Breton Queen’s spies.

He’d forgotten about that. Meager hours had passed, yet.

.. Ilsa. The shock of seeing her and her befuddling request left him thirsty for forest air.

What a fool he was, suggesting she stay awhile with him.

Her prideful reminder of her status was a slap to his face.

They were the best of friends once, clearly not anymore.

“Erik must have talked to you about the spies.”

Rurik’s gaze flitted to Davyn. “He did. After you left the feast hall.”

“Then why don’t you speak to the jarl?” He ran a soothing hand over the horse’s haunch. Not everything had changed with the men. At least Erik had told Rurik the news before he told Longsword.

“I won’t because he asked for you.” Rurik petted the horse’s nose. “It’s unusual for you to run when trouble strikes. Especially when it comes from a woman.”

He flinched at that kernel of truth. “I’m not running. I’m finishing my patrol. That’s the difference.”

Rurik’s stormy-eyed stare cut through him.

He hated the uncertainty clouding him, the sooner he left, the better. The knobby-kneed stable boy cooed to the warhorse, his dirt-stained hand stroking the white neck. Bjorn gripped the saddle to haul himself up.

“Hold him, Davyn. He’s skittish tonight.”

“Come with me, Bjorn.” Rurik grabbed the reins, his voice flinty.

Eyes narrowing, Bjorn’s tone was equally hard. “Not sure how I should take that.”

“Take it however you like, my friend, as long as you walk with me to the jarl’s map room.”

Silver gleamed high on Rurik’s arm, the wide metal band etched with three wolves announcing his rank.

He looked different, wearing a long-sleeved blue tunic without the Forgotten Sons’ black leather vest. Rurik was their leader, but they often worked as equals.

Rare was the day Rurik asserted himself like this, arm flexing and fist clenching as if he contemplated punching Bjorn’s admittedly stubborn jaw.

He let go of the saddle and willed himself to cool down. Time alone to sort through his thoughts wasn’t worth discord with his friend.

Rurik’s grin was lopsided. “I knew you’d see reason. You usually do.”

Opening the leather pouch on his belt, he hummed his doubt. It was all Rurik would get. “See my horse is bedded down, and Davyn—” he tossed a shiny copper over the saddle “—buy apples for my horse when the market opens tomorrow.”

Two more coppers flew over the saddle into the grubby hand. “Get apples for you and the other boys.”

“My thanks,” the boy mumbled.

Both men cleared the stall in silence. Walking through the barn, Rurik checked rows of horses on his left and on his right.

“That wasn’t smart,” he said quietly. “Your talking freely about spies.”

“That was Davyn. A Viking stable boy.”

“No. That was reckless.”

He frowned at the starry night beyond the barn door.

Rurik had a talent for cutting to the root.

A well-chosen word, a stormy glare, and seasoned warriors shrank from their error.

There’d be no bluster, no raging. A point was made, the matter done.

A man had best learn from it. Creaking timbers drew his eye to a mouse scuttling into a shadowy hole.

Spies could be anywhere. Speaking openly was dangerous.

Exiting the barn, he couldn’t define his unrest. Turmoil was an unraveling cloth, and he had no means to stop it.

Air soughed strangely through harvest-stripped fields as if the gods were sifting through the matters of men.

Wheat and rye had grown there. The rich yield augured seasons of plenty.

Children fed. Mothers birthing healthy babes.

Families multiplying as the gods would have them do.

Rouen’s openness seemed to go on forever until it butted the hotly contested southern forest—the line between chaos and order, the line the Sons would drive to the Breton Seas.

He was here with his men to expand a Viking kingdom. Best he got his head set on that.

Rollo the Walker had planted Rouen’s first seeds. His son, Will Longsword, would grow them with more Viking farms, more Viking fighters, and soon, more Viking ships.

“You’ll have to get used to Vellefold’s people,” Rurik said. “They come to Rouen for trade.”

“The lady of Vellefold came for me.” Accusation threaded his voice.

“If I’d known you were back from your patrol, I would’ve warned you Lady Ilsa was here.” Rurik looked at him, a terse line between his brows. “You know that.”

The mishap was understandable. His ride with Erik was supposed to end at sunrise, but there was more at stake than news of spies.

“Except it’s hard to see me or the men sitting where you do.”

Years the Sons rode together, ate together, fought, and laughed together.

They’d lived with a clear understanding of who they were and how they lived.

Rurik had changed all that one summer season, deciding in his quiet, forceful way to steer the Sons differently and give himself and his men a permanent home.

Rurik shrugged off the rebuke. “I was distracted.”

“With your wife.”

“Yes, with my wife,” Rurik repeated treasured words. Two more steps and he tossed out, “You should find a woman.”

“Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Find a woman to spend the rest of my life with.”

“It doesn’t have to be hard.”

A reluctant grin was forming as grains of frustration rolled off his shoulders. Of late, these times with Rurik were scant. By Rurik’s loose-limbed stride, he also wished for easy companionship before meeting the jarl.

“Ilsa’s probably on her ship,” Rurik said. “I hear she leaves at sunrise tomorrow.”

Wind-chafed hands and a smoky feminine voice stirred him.

“I wish her safe journey.” Glancing skyward, he breathed another wish to the gods. May she find the warriors she needs.

“Erik told me she asked to speak with you alone.” Flames lit Rurik’s profile from torches planted along a plank walkway.

Longsword had ordered wooden paths built because the Jarl of Tisso and Jarl of Hedeby, both in Daneland, had done the same.

Now wooden walkways made a pattern throughout what would soon be a royal residence.

Tall posts stood farther out in a wide perimeter around the barn, thrall’s lodgings, and a longhouse for unmarried housekarls.

Those posts were the beginning of a palisade fence meant to surround Rouen’s power seat.

Whatever another well-known Norse leader did, Longsword sought to do it better.

The Forgotten Sons giving their lifelong vow to him was another sign of his supremacy.

“It was nothing,” he said. “I’d rather talk about what the jarl expects of us. He must have more in mind than patrolling forests.”

“He does, but I haven’t told the men yet.”

This was their way. Rurik and Bjorn speaking first, then to Erik. The black-haired Viking was the most vicious of the lot and the smartest. He brought a keen eye to every plan, and he’d picked up unique, war-monger talents on their travels.

“Longsword wants a special fighting force,” Rurik went on. “And when we’re not busy fighting, he’ll send untried warriors to my holding. I am to train them.”

“Training warriors.” He let that sink in. “Does the jarl expect the Sons to expand our number?”

“No. He wants housekarls of greater combat abilities. While I train them—” Rurik glanced sideways at him “—you would lead the Sons.”

“What?”

“Not all the time,” Rurik said, amused. “We still ride, the six of us, but there will be times you’ll lead the men when I must be elsewhere.” Two more steps and “The gods are changing our lives. We must adapt.”

Bjorn rounded the front of the feast hall, his footfalls punching soft earth. His life had been adapt, or die.

Why did this eve blur? The edges were fraying as if his life was about to split.

Within the hall, a musician strummed a lyre, the music spilling past double doors pulled opened by two young housekarls. Both men flanked the entrance, standing taller, eyes forward, shields and spears held stiffly. It was Rurik’s effect. Warriors young and old hungered to impress him.