Page 22 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Ademar turned to a housekarl. “Take their horses.” To Rurik, “Come with me.”

Rurik removed his shield from his back and passed it to the housekarl. Upon crossing the threshold, he whispered in Safira’s ear, “Stay close. And Safira...”

“Yes?”

“Keep. Quiet.”

“You will have my best manners, Viking.”

He couldn’t tell if the maid was sincere or not, so lost was she in the wonder of the feast hall.

Safira untied her cloak, her neck craning at intricate carvings in tall ash wood posts.

Four giggling thralls dressed in identical blue linen tunics were setting wooden bowls brimming with plums and pears on tables.

Those four women wore their hair cropped at the shoulders.

An older woman with a wheat-blonde braid hanging to her knees stood on a bench, pouring oil into a lamp as wide around as a shield.

It was Astrid, the jarl’s matselja , the valued keeper of his hall.

In center fire pits, young boys cranked meat cooking on a spit, two pigs and venison.

Blue and yellow shields lined the walls.

..easily a hundred of them. At the end of the hall an ornately carved chair faced tables that would fit two hundred or more.

Behind the jarl’s seat, a carving of Yggdrasil sprawled floor to ceiling across that wall.

A housekarl guarded a passage hidden behind a loose-weave leather curtain.

The gervibur , the room full of weaponry, and a second storeroom containing the jarl’s wealth.

At the opposite corner, Ademar pulled aside a loose-weave leather curtain. The jarl’s lodgings.

They stepped up onto plank wood floors and walked down a hallway. Ademar pushed open a door, and they entered a room smelling of spicy mead. The Jarl stood over a hnefatafl game. A seated woman dressed in black leather faced him, her pretty features fox-like. The shield maiden, Ellisif.

“Rurik.” Longsword took a draught from his drinking horn, giving the board his final consideration before pushing off the wall.

“Jarl.”

Longsword grimaced, intent on Safira. “Jarl is not necessary within these four walls.” He set his horn in an ornate silver stand. “I see you brought a guest.”

“This is Safira. My favored companion.”

A smile ghosted the maid’s lips. Was she pleased he didn’t call her his thrall?

“My lord.” She tipped her head in deference to Longsword.

Longsword gave a cursory nod and braced his hands on a long table in the middle of the room. The tips of his fingers pressed hard, turning white. The hairs on Rurik’s nape bristled. Something wasn’t right. The jarl’s stare was guarded and his manner on edge.

Was there a secret within the walls?

Rurik had never been inside the room, but he knew of it.

Will Longsword set strategy here. Behind the jarl an ox hide map hung from ceiling to floor.

The Seine River snaked off the sea. A smaller river, the Epte, cut the hide in half.

Franks lived on one side of that river, Vikings on the other.

Runes marked places on the map, but his knowledge of runes was basic.

One place was obvious—Paris, the island citadel in the Seine with its two bridges.

Ellisif unfolded herself from the table, flicking ice-blonde hair over her shoulder.

Tiny runes were tattooed across the bridge of her nose, a thin line down the center of her chin, and two lines flaring high off her cheekbones.

A single larger rune, algiz from older times, was visible between her eyes.

“Rurik.” Her cool green stare landed on Safira. “I am Ellisif. The jarl’s favored...housekarl.”

“Housekarl?” Safira echoed.

“A common warrior of no special rank,” she explained in a throaty purr.

The jarl eyed Ellisif and nudged his head at the door.

Ellisif addressed Safira. “It looks like you and I are being dismissed.” Long legs encased in black leather ranged across the room. “Come. I’ll take you to your room.”

If Safira was nervous, she didn’t show it. Standing proudly, she gave her thanks to the jarl and Ademar. Only the pink tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip betrayed her before she disappeared into the hallway.

Ellisif tarried at the lintel. She glanced at the hnefatafl board, her smile full of mischief for the jarl. “Your move.” And she shut the door.

Longsword’s mouth twisted in his trimmed beard.

Ademar huffed a laugh. “Women.” Looking to Rurik, he held up an earthen pitcher from a table tucked in a corner. “Mead to quench your thirst after a long journey?”

“No. I prefer to take my bad news sober.”

Ademar poured mead for himself. “You see, brother, that is why Rurik of the Forgotten Sons is the right man.” Ademar tapped the tattooed side of his head. “He is smart enough to read the lay of the land. Or at least he can read you.”

“Not well enough.” Longsword’s gaze flicked from Rurik to his brother.

Ademar’s shrug was light. In it was a wealth of unspoken words between brothers.

Hairs on Rurik’s neck stood on end. “Something is wrong?” he asked.

“You could say that.” Longsword walked the length of the table. “Your taking the land was supposed to be quiet. Without trouble.” He dusted a clean corner. “I can’t afford more trouble than I already have.”

“What kind of trouble are you talking about?”

Legs wide, the jarl positioned himself on the far side of the room. “Did you or your men steal beer from Wandrille Abbey?”

The beer. He gritted his teeth, Safira’s warning echoed in his head. You reap what you sow, Viking .

He’d not mince words. “Our supplies were running low. My men took two small casks of beer.”

“You stole from monks,” the jarl said.

“No blood was shed.”

“That’s not the point,” Longsword bit out.

“Then what is?” Rurik was equally terse.

Ademar circled the room, humor dancing in his eyes. “Get ready. You’ll like this.”

Longsword glanced peevishly at his brother and retrieved a rolled-up ox hide from a shelf on the wall. “My brother finds it amusing when I’m roused from my bed before sunrise because Christian holy men demand an audience.”

“The monks from Wandrille Abbey are here?” Rurik asked.

“Yes. Three of them cower behind barred doors in Rouen’s abbey to avoid our pagan Midsumarblot feast.” Longsword set the ox hide on the table and began untying it.

“How did they get here before—” Rurik stopped himself and finished, his voice flat “—the coracles on the riverbank.”

Ships favored by Gaels and their holy men. It made sense the holy men here would craft the same puny, basket-like vessels. The monks must’ve got in their boats and rowed upriver all night. Right after his men stole their beer.

“See what I mean, brother?” Ademar’s grin was a show of teeth. “He’s smart.”

“I need more than smart and good with a sword.” Longsword gave the ox hide a snap and it unrolled across the table.

“I need someone skilled with people. A talent for war is one thing, but I can’t have monks complaining to kings east of the Epte River how Vikings are treating them badly. It’s a battle cry for Christians.”

Rurik set a booted foot on the table’s bench. Bracing a hand on his knee, he leaned in to see the new map.

“I’ll pay these holy men and be done with it.”

Ademar’s laughter rose to the rafters. “Oh, it gets better. Wait for this.”

“You will hear their complaints with me tomorrow morning.” Longsword smoothed the hide’s curling edge. “It would be wise of you to reassure them.”

Rurik glanced at Longsword. “Of what?”

The jarl planted both hands on the ox hide.

This map was similar to the one hanging on the wall except more markings had been inked on the leather.

A dotted line cut the hide in half with circles to the south, symbols of scattered Gaelic, Breton, and Celtic tribes with markings of Germanic tribes deeper in Frankia.

Longsword sucked in a breath, the kind one took when seeking patience.

“You must convince the monks that you are not a Viking beast...that you are a fair and honest leader. Because those Christian holy men live here—” the jarl drew a wide oval on the map “—on the land I had planned to give you.”

Rurik was eyes on the map. “I will be their protector.”

Ground was less certain beneath him, all because Norns put a challenging new thread in his life’s weave. He would meet it. Safira, the Sons, the land, these monks. All were threads of responsibility. His.

Ademar hummed a humored tune and poured more mead for himself. Longsword traced a line on his secret map, starting from the Seine’s low, tight curve.

“Your land would have been from here, to Jumieges Abbey, to the Arelaune forest all the way to the east-west road by Wandrille Abbey.”

“As I said, I will reassure the holy men,” Rurik said.

“It would be good for your men to be here too.”

Rurik scrubbed his jaw, two things bothering him. He hadn’t told his men and the jarl expected them to be part of this plan. The other bothersome point—Longsword said Your land would have been here as if the matter was not concluded.

Powerful need surged in him, from the soles of his boots to the sword strapped to his back. His fame, his story would be written on this map.

Best he get on with telling the truth.

“The Forgotten Sons may or may not stay,” he said gruffly.

“I was under the impression your men would continue to serve you.” Longsword’s voice was cold disappointment.

“I am their leader, but we have worked on near equal standing. The Forgotten Sons are wanderers...too restless to live in one place for long. I won’t order them to stay.”

Ademar moseyed up to the table. “Have you asked them? Part of your appeal is your men. You’re a small band of warriors, a well-known force to be reckoned with by any measure.”

“Will you ask them?” Longsword’s voice was the soul of patience.