Page 49 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)
Chapter
Thirty
R urik took his seat at the jarl’s table, and the Sons seated themselves at tables facing the fire pits.
Faces drawn, they tucked into the light fare Gyda set before them.
After the attack, they’d scoured the southern forest, chasing Vlad and his men.
Rurik had stayed the first night with Safira, joining them on the next two to hunt for his father.
Vlad’s men were good. Burying the carcasses of rabbits they’d trapped for food.
Burying their fire rings under dirt and fern fronds.
He knew he’d been close to their camp the third night.
Vlad and his men hadn’t built a fire, but the imprint of their shod horses left a clue—the Sons were nipping at their heels.
Yet, the Rus Viking and his men eluded them.
It burned that he hadn’t killed Vlad in the battle for land. Rage seared deep, charring what goodness lived inside him. That flame of hate twisted in dark places inside him, taunting him that he should’ve killed Vlad when he was a boy. Norns kept weaving the vilest pitch-black thread with Vlad.
Some men were never meant to be fathers.
Standing before the jarl’s table, Reuben of Alzaud, a man of dignity and stature, gave his thanks to Longsword.
Dressed in red and black robes that reached mid-calf, he snapped his fingers twice.
One of the men from his retinue came forward, bearing a hefty coin purse.
The fat offering rolled off the servant’s hands, clinking loudly on the jarl’s table.
“Please accept my token of gratitude for giving shelter to my daughter.” Rueben of Alzaud’s voice tinged with knowing, one man of power to another. His manner was learned, and his head and trimmed beard showed as much black as grey.
Longsword toyed with the leather tie binding the purse. “I accept your gift. As you know, I learned the truth about Safira the day you arrived. No harm came to her except for the unfortunate attack.”
“And we are grateful that she is recovering. One of the women in your household has proven highly skilled in healing.”
“Astrid,” Longsword supplied.
“Yes. I would like to reward her as well. With your permission, Count.”
The jarl’s mouth crooked at the Frankish title. “You may, as long as you let your King Rudolph know he should look east for the root of your family’s troubles, not west.”
Rueben nodded sagely. “For the cause of peace between our people, be assured, I will.”
An untouched plate of food sat in front of Rurik.
He toyed with his knife. This was what he’d wanted.
None of it felt right. He and Longsword were beasts of war, put here to keep men like King Rudolph and Reuben of Alzaud safe from attacks from the sea.
The fathers and grandfathers of the Vikings gathered in this hall did this very thing—provided protection for gold and silver. They took what they wanted and left.
Until the Franks offered land.
Yet, the Franks still hid their daughters from Vikings.
Rurik rolled the knife in hand, the riddle of him and Safira unfolding.
Franks didn’t want their seed mingling with Vikings any more than Vikings wanted Frankish seed.
Love and lust sowed itself between two unwilling sides.
The Franks would be the fine-dressed neighbors, contending with Viking barbarians, breathing at their door and protecting it.
All this fine reasoning didn’t mean a thing to his heart.
Neither did land. Nor gold.
Rueben of Alzaud studied him, a master of human nature. The merchant flicked two fingers, and two attendants stepped forward, flanking a wide and shallow box banded with leather. Alzaud’s dark eyes bored into Rurik as the attendants grunted and huffed, crossing the hall to jarl’s table.
Every stare followed the men as they heaved the chest upward and dropped it in front of Rurik.
Coins jangled. Dishes rattled. A man got what he deserved. This was his rich reward.
Why did it feel like he was given ashes?
Alzaud leaned forward as if he peered into the marrow of Rurik’s bones to ferret truth from tale in this rough Viking from Birka. Dark fatherly eyes took in the arm ring. Three wolves were carved in silver. Longsword’s wolves. Rurik was now the third highest man in Rouen.
He had what he’d sought. Land. Fame. Wealth.
All of it won by the force of his hand.
“Aren’t you going to check the contents?” Reuben asked.
Rurik stirred in his seat. The silence was suffocating.
Gunnar and Thorvald stopped eating. Wide-eyed thralls waited in a line against the wall, trays and pitchers in hand.
Thorfinn’s face pinched with disappointment.
Erik scowled at the unopened chest as if a viper lurked inside.
And Bjorn, the giant, measured him without judgment, stroking over-long whiskers since he was too long from a shave.
Rurik flipped open the lid. Gold glared within, the shine bathing him.
An unseemly amount. Hundreds, if not thousands, of newly minted coins.
It would take a man days to count the wealth.
Thumb and forefinger plucked a lone tarnished piece and held it high.
A coin from the Frankish Merovingian kings.
“Do you find this...acceptable?” Alzaud’s voice dripped with meaning.
The real question was Are you willing to trade my daughter for a chest of gold?
“Because if you do,” Alzaud went on. “I would like to take Safira home where she will be safe.”
Because she’ll never be safe with you hung in the air.
He was Viking. The unsavory pagan on the other side of the Epte River.
His wounded leg throbbed and his heart shriveled.
Rurik dropped the coin into the chest. Ashes and dust, this gold .
He’d fought hard all his life and never earned this much wealth.
Unseen ice closed hard and cold around him. What had Safira said that first day?
Even a warrior such as you must know there are times when the force of your hand is not the answer.
The force of his hand was the only thing he knew.
Who was he to play at love?
Safira was better off without him. She’d nearly bled to death because of him.
Because he’d kept her.
If he’d taken her home as promised, she would’ve been clothed in silk, not wearing a thrall’s woolen garments. And she would’ve been protected and cosseted by her family.
His gaze lifted to the father delivering a knife-sharp message. He snapped the lid shut and pushed up from the table. “It is acceptable.”
Today a father bought distance between a low-born Viking and his highborn daughter. At least that’s what he tried to tell himself because the ugly truth was worse. Everyone in the feast hall knew.
Rurik had just sold the woman he loved.
Without a word, he limped out of the hall, leaving his newfound wealth behind.