Page 23 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

“I will, but you must understand, in our years together, we’ve shared our spoils evenly.

I’ve never taken a leader’s portion. My taking the land changes everything.

” Rurik shook his head. “They can live there, but the holding would be mine.” After a moment, he waved a hand over the map.

“Would you consider giving them holdings of their own?”

Longsword and Ademar exchanged speaking glances.

The jarl’s mouth firmed. “I prefer to have a seasoned fighting force working as one rather than spreading them out. I need protection from invaders coming off the sea. The Breton Queen Annick harries me from the south. My spies tell me she wants to attack from the river.”

Rurik studied the map’s snaking blue line. “The same way Vikings went after Paris. Sailing up the Seine River.”

Queen Annick of Nantes, wife of Rognvald, a Viking of Oslo.

Rognvald and his Viking men invaded the southern Breton lands, but unlike other Vikings they did not seek to farm or flourish through trade.

Chaos and disorder ruled. Christian Bretons fled the land, but a beautiful young noble woman named, Annick, had been caught.

Rognvald married her, and that was when the Viking’s troubles began.

Rognvald’s men were mysteriously poisoned. Throats sliced while abed.

Skalds whispered of Annick’s blood oath, but to which god?

It was said the Breton woman had bided her time, quietly gathering followers from weak Gaelic and Celtic tribes along the coast. She’d vowed to cleanse the land of Vikings.

“My wish was to have you put two defensive lines in the river...here—” Longsword tapped the Seine above Jumieges Abbey and drew a line east across the land “—and here.”

“It will be done,” Rurik assured him.

“I had also hoped you and the Forgotten Sons would bring on more men, become a training ground for warriors. With the rich forests, you could have ship builders on the land as well...build a fleet of ships for me. I will need both to defeat the Breton queen.”

Arms crossed, Rurik studied the map, with two points glaring in his mind. The jarl didn’t want to invade Paris: he cared only about defeating the pagan queen to the south. Yet, because of stolen beer, Longsword wasn’t convinced Rurik was the man to keep watch over an important Nor’man holding.

“I have a great many plans. This is one of them.” The jarl tossed a coin onto the table, the tarnished silver spinning on the map.

Rurik picked up the well-traveled coin. A Viking ship was stamped on one side. “A coin of Hedeby.”

“I will mint my own coins and make Rouen a fine trading center to rival Paris. To do that I must have strong fighting men, and leaders who know how to live with Christians among us. There can be no distractions.” The jarl eyed the southern symbols, his mouth a hard line.

“Because I will crush the Breton queen and take her land in the south.”

Rurik tossed the coin back to Longsword. “Have you changed your mind? About my leadership here and the holding?”

“It is a consideration. The land is wild...wide open. You would have to camp in the forest until your lodgings are built or seek shelter in one of the abbeys.” His laugh was grim. “I’m not sure the monks would have you, and you cannot spill their blood.”

Rurik waved a hand over the strip of land. “No one else lives here?”

“None. I hope you have plenty of gold. You would have to hire men or build your longhouse and barns yourself...a difficult task if you have no one to support you.”

No one...as in the Forgotten Sons.

Rurik read the hide. The markings on leather stood out boldly. Abbeys, small squares with crosses scattered throughout the land. The Arelaune Forest, a green swath painted on leather. The Seine, a curving blue ribbon.

This was his land.

One small use of force shouldn’t count against him, but it did in Longsword’s eyes. The jarl, irked as he was about the nervous holy men, was too calm. Rurik had navigated shifting kingdoms enough times to know Longsword was leaving nothing to chance.

There was another warrior.

Without looking up from the map, he said, “You have someone else in mind to take the land.”

Laughter and music bled past the jarl’s closed door. Midsumarblot revelers must’ve stumbled into the feast hall. Outside was noisy yet Longsword and his brother were distinctly quiet.

“After the monks were here this morning, it was Ademar’s idea to approach another warrior.” The jarl flipped the coin and caught it. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. The silver flickered in lamplight as it spun in the air. “You understand, with the threat from the south, I need to move quickly.”

Ademar stood beside his brother, his face, eyes, and stance mirroring the jarl.

It was said Longsword was the iron and Ademar was the sharp edge of the blade, the one to see things done.

Both were men of action, but Ademar, a hrisungr , the bush born son of a free man and slave mother, walked a more violent path.

The brothers worked in concert from years of knowing the intricacies of the other—like the Forgotten Sons.

Rurik stood tall. “I would fight to the death for this land, but I will not beg.”

A grin common to beasts of war creased Ademar’s face, while stately acknowledgment touched the jarl’s.

“First, you and I have the monks to appease tomorrow morning,” the jarl said.

Rurik tensed. “My rival for the land. He is here for Midsumarblot?”

“Don’t you care to know who I have arranged for you to wed? If you get the land?”

“Not particularly.” Arms crossed, Rurik could feel another blow was coming.

The jarl was stalling. “Your wife would be Lady Brynhild of Fecamp. A beautiful, wealthy widow.”

Ademar’s fingers tapped the table. “She agreed to wed whoever wins.”

A harsh laugh erupted from Rurik. They’d already planned a fight for the land.

“I have heard of Lady Brynhild,” he said. “But she is the least of my concerns.”

Rurik glared at Longsword. He was not a pet to be managed. It was best the chieftain knew this. Rurik would speak his mind and do what needed doing. For years he was the warrior who went into dark places and came out alive.

“Tell me the name of my rival.”

The jarl’s jaw tightened as if a seed of understanding passed between them.

Longsword had lived in the shadow of a famed father and by all accounts was on his way to exceed his father’s glory.

With his plan to expand Rouen’s borders, he would.

Longsword balanced a warrior’s might with a leader’s skill.

He would make tough decisions and not think twice about them.

Longsword dropped the coin into an open chest, brimming with silver.

“Your rival is Vlad of Birka. Your father.”