Page 27 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Fourteen

R urik stepped into the hall, dirt from the Arelaune Forest still on his boots.

Norns had spun his life with stingy threads, but the goddesses had woven in wealth.

He’d been too single-minded to see it. The rich threads were his men scattered among the revelers and Safira, waiting for him at the jarl’s table.

At twilight, he’d entered this longhouse to give an oath for a stretch of land.

His future. Desire for land burned in him.

He would claim the holding. Fight to the death for it if he had to.

But, landed or not, his life’s weave would twine forever with the Forgotten Sons and the ebon-haired maid, a gift from the goddesses.

This was his chance to have it all.

Rurik scraped past two beefy farmers. Men everywhere were dressed in clean tunics, laughing with their wives and children.

Pretty thralls threaded the room, pouring mead and Frankish wine for thirsty warriors.

Only the finest was served tonight. Three men played goat-bone flutes in one corner while Bjorn stood watch in the other.

The giant of Vellefold nursed a wooden cup with his back against the wall.

“Bjorn.” Rurik nodded a greeting. “You’re taking watch tonight? Where’s Erik?”

Bjorn tipped his head at Erik guzzling from a horn in the shadows near the jarl’s table. “That would be his fifth since I decided to count. Mead, Frankish wine, ale... Thralls fill his horn and he drinks it.”

Glassy-eyed and wild, Erik’s hair was in disarray and his scowl bearish. He swiped his arm brace across his mouth and held out his drinking horn for an obliging thrall.

“I’ll talk to him.” Rurik took a step.

Bjorn’s hand blocked him. “Don’t.”

Rurik faced his flinty-eyed second. Of all the Forgotten Sons, his history ran deepest with Bjorn.

The bastard son of Vellefold had been exiled at the age of twelve for outshining the heir.

Between a scheming wife and a wish for peace in his longhouse, the Jarl of Vellefold banished the son he’d loved most, sending Bjorn to Birka with only the clothes on his back and a sword.

Twelve-year-old Rurik convinced his mother, struggling to feed two sons and a daughter, to take in the rejected boy.

Warriors and rulers alike would comment on Bjorn’s highborn bearing to Rurik’s rough, quiet manner. But, lines of leadership had been drawn, forged in friendship when the homeless son of Vellefold gained a place in Birka.

“All is not forgiven, is it?” Rurik spoke calmly though his stomach churned.

He’d given and given and given to these men from boyhood to the present. Always fair. Always looking to their interests first.

“The men will need time. But, Erik—” Bjorn drank from his cup. “What you did hit him the hardest. He sees it as betrayal.”

“And the others?”

“They fare better. To them, this move has some...merit. You could say they’re taking your deception in stride.”

“The deception? Or my taking the land and not sharing?”

“Your question is an insult,” Bjorn growled. “You know they would die for you. Land means nothing to them. The brotherhood does. The men need time to heal from the wound you dealt them.”

Rurik’s chin dipped. When they were boys in Birka, he was the older brother, a pattern which had never changed. The Forgotten Sons trusted him. Always had. He would need to be patient, as would the men. Trust was a thread that once broken could be repaired...but would it be the same?

Across the hall Thorvald recovered with a ginger-haired maid on each thigh.

Thorfinn stroked his beard, engaged in thoughtful conversation with a farmer and his son.

Gunnar leaned a shoulder against a carved post, a trio of women vying for his attention.

By the sullen draw of his mouth, he gave them one-word answers.

“The men won’t admit it, but the loss of Leif still hurts. They’ve not healed.” Bjorn tipped his horn at Erik. “Him most of all.”

Quick of mind and vicious in battle, Erik liked his world well-ordered.

Of all the Sons, his childhood was blackest. He was.

..different. Churlish to most yet seeking odd friendships.

Many a night in Byzantium, he spent his time learning at the side of an old silversmith.

Carving his ivory pieces and studying metal craftsmanship interested him more than the gluttony of sensual pleasures in a brothel.

And he was the Son meant to go with Leif to collect their wages.

“He blames himself,” Bjorn said.

Rurik rubbed his chest, his voice dropping bitterly. “Leif was impatient. He should’ve waited. We all know that.”

“All but him.”

They both looked at Erik.

Across the room, the dark-haired Son wobbled on uneven feet, his shoulder banging a post as he sought a bench against the wall. When Erik was clear-headed, he was the best and smartest among them. When his dark emotions ruled, he was the worst.

Rurik’s hand fell to his side. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Because tonight another kind of trouble awaits.” Bjorn’s gaze flicked to Vlad at the jarl’s table. “The old wolf is ready to give challenge.”

Vlad raised his horn in salute to Rurik.

“Now he wants land and a home...what a surprise,” Rurik muttered bitterly.

Bjorn stood shoulder to shoulder with him. The other Sons had seen Vlad’s cruelty in Birka. Rurik’s nicked ear. His mother’s limp. A jagged scar at the back of Leif’s skull. Bjorn had arrived in Birka after the Rus Viking had left for good, but he’d heard tales of Vlad’s violent nature.

The years had not been kind to the man Rurik had once called Father.

A new scar slashed from eyebrow to cheek, the line going to Vlad’s throat.

He’d shaved both sides of his head, the same as Will Longsword, a blond braid trailing down the center of his head and landing on the middle of his spine.

Legs the size of tree trunks sprawled under the jarl’s table.

He was older, but Vlad was still a man of might.

Sigurd, the red-haired watchdog, still served him. That Viking stood two paces from Vlad, a constant eye on the older man’s back.

Rurik nodded at Vlad while speaking to Bjorn. “Trouble for tomorrow. I have better plans for tonight.”

Safira was the gold thread shining brightest on this strange night. She beckoned him to the empty seat waiting for him at the jarl’s table. He took two steps forward.

“Rurik.”

Bjorn had called him. He eyed him over his shoulder, finding a grudging smile on his second’s face.

“You deserve what lies ahead,” Bjorn said.

Rurik swallowed the knot in his throat. “I will find a way to see that all of us get what we deserve. It is my solemn oath.”

He turned and strode through milling warriors and farmers, making his way to Safira’s side. Tender slabs of pork sat on a platter in front of her with steaming hot lingonberry bread and greens. She buttered a slice of bread and bit into it as he took his seat.

“This is amazing. What are these berries? Their flavor is tangy and sharp.” She licked her lips and took another exuberant bite. Butter globbed on the corner of her mouth.

“Lingonberries. From the northlands.”

Barely in his seat between Safira and the jarl and his mood already improved. She was the balm he needed for what ailed him at the other end of the jarl’s table. Safira took another bite, her brows scrunching as she tasted more flavors in the bread.

“Someone dried them first and brought them here. Drying herbs and berries sharpens flavors.” She sniffed the bread. “Astrid is a skilled cook...she added cardamom. A perfect complement to your north berry.”

Knife in hand, he speared a hunk of meat. Safira’s zeal for Viking fare pleased him.

“You are not afraid to enjoy yourself, are you?”

She drank from a wooden cup, red wine painting her lips. “Frankish wine,” she said, waggling her now empty cup. “I had some of Lord Ademar’s cyser too. He poured it for me while I was waiting for you. I think it was his way of smoothing things.”

Smoothing things.

Tension coiled between Rurik’s shoulder blades. From his side vision, he caught Ademar engrossed in conversation with Vlad and the jarl. What was Ademar about, playing father against son? Most knew there was bad blood between them.

A warm hand caressed his knee under the table. “Whatever it is, let it go. Tonight is a time to celebrate the land. It will be yours.”

Safira. She was sweetness and seduction with her plump cleavage and hair twisting artfully at her nape. He preferred the lone lock falling free and her desirable mouth smiling with butter glossing the corner. Mussed. Imperfect. All his.

With his thumb, he wiped off the glob of butter. “What makes you think I am not celebrating?” He showed her the butter, and she set her lips on the pad of his thumb in a lush, artful kiss.

“Your mouth, Viking.” She leaned in. “The harshness was back when you were talking with Bjorn.”

She kissed his thumb again.

Heat pooled between his legs at her mouth on his thumb.

Her voice dipped for his ears alone. “It is the same as your father’s...a little cruel. But his, I think, has never changed. You...you are a man who knows the wisdom of change.” Black brows arched. “I speak the truth, no?”

“I will never be cruel with you.”

She squeezed his thigh and he’d swear age old wisdom reflected in her eyes. She was a woman sharing understanding with a friend. It warmed him, this thrum of friendship and lust. If Safira had married her prince, she would’ve made a formidable consort in the Burgundy court.

But she was his.

“You met Vlad,” he said.

“He is nothing like you, and his men—” her mouth pursed with distaste “—they are nothing like the Forgotten Sons.”