Page 21 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Eleven

N ine pagan bonfires burned. The Sons stopped on a crest above Rouen, witnesses to massive fires forming an arrow off the Seine.

Midsumarblot blazes could be guiding the gods from on high to look upon Jarl Will Longsword’s feast hall.

The air smelled of smoke and spiced wine.

Laughter was a song in the wind. Faces gleamed.

Drums and bone flutes set a rhythm for twirling dancers.

Drinking horns tipped high, revelers were ready to take their fill of food and sex.

Thorvald marveled at the display. “Look at that.”

Rollo the Walker had planted his seed here.

His son, Will, made it grow. But, Christians sprouted in the same land.

Longhouses, large and small, clustered in disorderly fashion, among them light-colored thatched roofs, homes of the Christians.

Down river, a single stone structure blighted the landscape. Rouen’s abbey.

Safira sat on her horse beside him, her profile graceful in twilight. She soaked in the festival, her face bright like a woman set free. Last night she’d given him the truth and left him with a new burden.

The wealth? Or the woman?

Rurik was greedy enough to want both.

“Rurik, the markets are still open.” Bjorn nodded at stalls and colorful tents lining the Seine.

Matrons ambled through the riverside market, touching bronze buckets and pottery while children darted around their skirts. Three humble coracles bobbed in the Seine alongside Frisian cog ships and two Persian vessels. Coins would pass through many hands tonight.

“Persians are here.” Erik’s dark eyes slanted at Rurik. “This is our chance.”

“You and Bjorn sell the ermine before the feast begins. Thorfinn, sell the pack horses. Gunnar, Thorvald, purchase tents and find a place to camp down river.” He spoke to the men with an eye to Longsword’s hall where warm amber light poured from doors flung wide.

Pass through that lintel and the land is yours.

“How long are we staying?” Bjorn craned his neck to follow a wrestling match in a field.

Rurik pressed his lips to a firm line. He hadn’t worked out what he’d say to the men, but the horses chomped at the bit as if sensing rest would be found here.

Thorvald and Thorfinn stretched in their saddles for an eyeful of dancing women spinning around a bonfire.

A night of richly deserved celebration and feasting was to be had.

“Prepare to stay several days. The jarl is expecting me.”

He looked to his men, their eyes bright in their helmets’ eye rings. Most tried to focus, but their attention flicked from him to Rouen. Gunnar didn’t even try. He was lost to a wrestling match ringed by onlookers.

Bjorn cuffed Gunnar’s shoulder. “Pay attention.”

Rurik managed a smile. The storm would come. “Have fun. Stay out of trouble. Watch each other’s backs.”

Wolfish grins were his answer. The men galloped down the road, howling with laughter, their fists beating the air. They were easy to follow until they dismounted and walked their war horses into Rouen, blending into the crowd.

Rurik’s fingers curled tightly around the reins.

“What is wrong?” Safira asked. “You look like a man prepared for a death march, not a feast.”

Her lilting accent was a balm to his soul. He’d made his choices. Now to face them.

He urged his horse forward, and she steered her horse alongside his.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “Once the feast begins, you must keep quiet and play the part of my thrall. It is for your safety.”

“Your thrall? I’d rather play at being your wife.” Her plush lips pouted prettily. “But your men would ruin the affect by speaking the truth.”

“Why my wife?”

“Because Viking wives are equal with their husbands, no?” Her spine was straight and her smile wide. “I prefer an even standing with you.”

He laughed, truly amused. “No one would believe I married you.”

“Why not?” His gaze wandered from her amber eyes to her lush breasts. “You do not have the face or the bearing of a Viking woman.”

“And you must marry a Viking woman? Why?”

A roar came from the side of the road. The horses plodded past the wrestling match.

A crowd ringed the field, all eyes on Ivar, the tattooed blacksmith.

The painted giant must’ve won. He brushed grass off his shoulder as two men rushed to the aid of a stumbling man.

Northmen and women filled the gathering.

Rurik could count on one hand those not of Viking extraction.

Meandering hooves underneath him were a sign of his reluctance to race headlong to his destiny.

Before Sothram’s outpost, he’d chafed at how long the journey was to get here.

Now, he slow-walked his horse into Rouen.

His life and hers was about to change. And he was holding on to every second with Safira, savoring it.

Savoring her. She’d given him the truth. It was time he did the same for her.

“This land belongs to Northmen.” He waved at grain fields on the left. “I must plant a Northman’s seeds.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Upon entering the village of Rouen, he turned his horse toward the great feast hall.

The road was clear with everyone at the markets and bonfires.

Two men dressed in the jarl’s favored blue guarded the door, their round shields held waist high.

Three yellow wolves chased each other on a field of blue—the color and design of Rurik’s new shield once he swore an oath to the jarl.

“I will stay in Rouen.” His throat tight, he reined in his horse before the feast hall. “The Forgotten Sons may not.”

Safira stopped with him, holding the reins confidently in one hand, her amber eyes locking with his. Understanding lit those gold depths, her stare consuming him before dipping to the leather wolf on his chest. She took in burning torches and stoic housekarls, their spears pointing to the skies.

She tipped her head, a faint feminine nod. “You are here to make an alliance with Longsword.”

There was serene knowing in her voice.

“He has promised to give me a holding,” he admitted.

“And you will marry a woman of his choosing?”

Under her level gaze, he shifted in the saddle. His horse stomped an impatient hoof, and Rurik soothed his steed.

“He is more concerned with me holding the land in his name.”

Her brows pinched thoughtfully. The jarl would expect him to marry a Viking woman. She had to understand that. Alliances were everything. His Paris maid had cut her teeth in a world of wealth and power.

Keeping her would be the hard part, but she would become accustomed to living amongst Vikings as concubine, comfort woman, companion. What people would call her didn’t matter. Nor did her father’s gold. He didn’t need it. Surely the holding would be rich enough.

Twisting the reins in hand, he accepted another truth—he needed Safira in a bone-deep way.

When the time was right, he would tell her she was his to keep.

She studied the lintel’s elaborate knot-work carving. “But the jarl will arrange your marriage to a Viking woman, no?”

A simple question, yet it stung.

“Enough of this talk about marriage.”

“But—

“Safira…” Molars grinding, he dismounted and stood beside her. “It’s more important that you understand, tonight will be...festive.”

“You mean people will drink to excess?” Her voice rang with wry humor. “I have seen these things before.”

He removed his helmet and touched her bare leg. With his thumb, he drew tender circles on her knee. “I need you to stay by my side.”

Her mouth curled with mischief. “Where else would I be, Viking, but at your side amongst so many heathens?”

“You have no need to fear for your virtue.”

She covered his hand on her knee with her hand. “With you, Rurik, I fear nothing.”

Light shined from her amber eyes. He stood tall in the glow of her praise. She was a jewel to protect, a woman men would seek for themselves. Since confessing her secret last night, she’d laughed more. Talked to the men often, even Thorvald, jesting with him about his braids.

Windblown from hard riding, Safira was a beautiful creature. One men would covet.

“First, we must see Longsword,” he said.

“ We , Viking?”

He warmed to her teasing tone.

“Yes, you and I.” He squeezed her knee with affection. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t. But you, Viking, are a little messy. You need fixing before you see the jarl.”

Slender fingers stroked his hairline, tucking back strands come loose and wiping a smudge of dirt off his forehead. Her touch lulled him. Even in small measures. Intimate and peaceful, her nearness fed the strange seed growing inside him.

When she was done, he set both hands on her waist and lifted her from the saddle.

Her feet on the ground, he kissed her forehead, and he’d swear he smelled the magic of the Arelaune Forest on her skin.

It could’ve been the drums pulsing, the elation at being moments away from claiming the land, but his lips dropped to hers, planting a tender kiss.

Safira grasped his shoulders and emotions, thick like honey and twice as sweet, jumbled inside him. Some pure. Some not. Her plush lips slid against his, and he could almost believe he was made for her and she for him.

“Welcome to Rouen.” Amusement tinged a gruff voice.

Rurik jolted upright.

Ademar, Will Longsword’s older half-brother, filled the doorway.

Big in the way of his famed father, Rollo, Ademar wore his privilege without an ounce of resentment at being the bastard son.

On half his head, ash blond hair hung in a thick, straight line ending at his shoulders.

The other half was shaved, a scar slicing skin from his cheek into a twisting tattoo on the bare half of his head.

A worthy warrior, he was known for his skill with the spear.

Nothing about the man bothered Rurik except the bastard’s stare locked on Safira.

It lingered, hard with interest, before landing on Rurik’s claiming hand on her elbow.

Rurik tipped his head. “Ademar.”