Page 30 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Fists pounded tables. Wooden cups and plates rattled.

Feet stomped the floor until Safira faced the feast hall, her hands raised to quiet them.

During the negotiations, the housekarls who’d stood guard at the entrance shut the doors and moved inside.

Astrid snapped her fingers and thralls scurried to close the shutters.

Safira’s voice rose in the gathering smoke. “My people have a story of a famed warrior named Samson. A Hebrew like me.” She paused before Ellisif. “And the woman who defeated him, Delilah from the Valley of Sorek.”

Ellisif untangled herself from Bjorn, her face a mask of doubt. Unafraid, Safira ambled around the center fire pits, telling her tale.

“Delilah’s weapons were her wit and her wiles, not sword and shield. She was a daughter of Samson’s enemies in a time when my people had no king. Samson, born of humble parents, never cut his hair...”

Vikings leaned in, scorn melting from the hardest faces.

Erik stopped drinking. Vlad rested in his seat, head cocked as if to catch every word.

Only Vlad’s watchdog Sigurd wasn’t impressed.

His mouth twisted with disdain. Safira went on spinning a story of the powerful warrior’s exploits and his long, glorious hair.

“His first feat was to kill a lion with his bare hands as if that beast were a lamb.” She regaled them with Samson’s courage. Laughter roared when she recounted the Hebrew warrior killing a thousand men with the jawbone of an ass.

Longsword whispered to Rurik, “Look at her. She beguiles them with her storytelling. You would do well to keep her.”

“I plan to.”

“Until it is time for you to take a Viking wife. Or you will have no peace.”

A Viking wife .

Hair bristled at Rurik’s nape. He should marry someone of his own people.

Safira made a strong argument with her tale of Samson and Delilah—a powerful warrior felled by an enemy temptress.

She was his temptress, circling the room, enthralling the crowd, a woman born to feast in grander courts than Rouen.

“The day came when Delilah finally learned the secret to Samson’s strength.

It was his hair.” She removed the combs at her nape and shiny black hair tumbled down her back.

“That very night, Delilah waited until Samson was fast asleep. She sneaked out to gather his enemies.” Safira clutched a handful of her hair while her free hand sawed the locks.

“When she returned, Delilah grabbed Samson’s braids and shaved his head. ”

Matrons nestled sleepy babes in their laps.

Farmers held bigger children straining to follow Safira as she strolled by each captivated face.

“When Samson woke up, he was weak as a newborn lamb. He couldn’t fight.

His enemies bound him and dragged him away.

” Her voice quieted. “They blinded him, beat him, kept him in chains for many, many days.”

“But did he defeat them?” Thorvald called out.

She pivoted to the smash-faced warrior. “Yes. By a great sacrifice. Samson’s enemies brought him out each night to taunt him.

This went on for a long time. A season passed and Samson’s hair began to grow.

One night as he stumbled from his prison in chains, he asked the guard leading him to the feast hall to bind him between the center posts.

” She set her hand on one ash post. “Standing in chains, he prayed for strength and it came to him.”

“He prayed for strength?” Thorvald’s scoffing voice boomed.

“ Shhh !” Matrons hushed him.

“Let her finish,” a housekarl called out.

All eyes were on Safira.

“Samson pushed with all his might—” her arm strained against the post “—the columns shook. He pushed again and this time the hall tumbled down on Samson and his enemies.”

The room was silent as she looked to Thorvald. “Blood shed on behalf of another,” she said in a solemn voice. “A sign of great sacrifice.”

The second law of the Forgotten Sons.

“Sounds like revenge.” Ivar raised his horn high.

“No. Sounds like a man should be careful about the woman he brings to his bed,” Ademar jested.

Nervous laughter followed. Several men cast furtive glances at female companions before burying their noses in their cups.

Most were hooked by the tale. Vikings were bred on revenge and sex.

Two passions to feed the crowd. Thralls who had tarried to hear the story rushed to fill drinking horns.

A sleeping babe was awakened, his howls rising to the rafters.

The mother rocked him in her seat, calming him.

Ademar rose, drinking horn in hand. “My brother asked me to give fair judgment, and I say Safira won.”

Fists thumping the tables mingled with shouts of approval. Ivar and Ellisif lifted their horns, adding to the cries supporting Safira.

The jarl raised a hand to quiet the hall.

“It is decided. Safira has won. Her request will be honored. Father and son will fight for the land but not to the death.” A hush fell over the crowd.

Thralls rested earthen pitchers on their hips and mothers shushed their children.

“We are Vikings,” he went on. “Surrounded by enemies and nervous allies. The Franks gave land to my father, a token reward if he would be their watchdog...but we grabbed more.”

The crowd was with him. Farmers and housekarls stood shoulder to shoulder, nodding. Smiles grim, these men savored battles. None were afraid to fight.

Longsword’s smile was feral. “And we’ll take more land by our strength and unity. We are one!”

“Strength and unity!” The roar shook the rafters.

Safira scampered to the jarl’s table through smoke-thick air.

She rushed to Rurik’s side as he stood to full height.

Vlad pushed up from the table, his icy stare marking Safira before meeting Rurik’s eyes.

The feast hall rang with calls for strength and unity, but none could be found between father and son.