Page 53 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

S ix men wore tunics of Jarl Longsword’s favored blue.

They stepped onto the wooden platform where Will Longsword stood with silver arm rings in hand.

Rurik’s arm ring was the widest, identical to one that Ademar had but rarely wore.

On the wall behind them, the vast carving of Yggdrasil shined from a fresh oil polish.

The Forgotten Sons went down on bended knee and, in the hushed hall, gave their var to Rouen’s chieftain.

Rurik, Bjorn, Erik, Thorfinn, Thorvald, and Gunnar. Safira watched their broad backs clothed in fine wool. Only one made her heart beat fast. Rurik of Rouen, the new minor chieftain to claim a holding in the wild forest of Arelaune. He was her mate, her friend, her gentle lover.

Her husband.

Oaths given, the men stood to roars that shook the rafters. Ellisif sidled up to Safira, two drinking horns in hand. She handed one to Safira.

“Here. You’re going to need this.”

“What is it?”

The shield maiden flashed a conspirator’s smile. “Ademar’s private supply of cyser.”

They drank the sweet, apple brew, watching the men take their arm rings from the jarl.

“It is very good.” Her smile matched Ellisif’s. “Even better since it’s stolen goods.”

Ellisif’s laugh was rich. “Spoken like a true Viking woman.” The warrior woman checked the room and said, “I see Lady Brynhild is not here. Tell me, how did you convince the jarl to accept you as Rurik’s wife?”

“You mean my new fighting skills aren’t impressive enough to convince him?”

Ellisif snorted. “I have seen you with a sword. I’m not convinced.”

She hummed agreement and sipped cyser. “It’s true. I will never be a warrior.”

“Don’t give up. Try your hand at the bow and arrow.”

“Gunnar could teach me,” she said.

“The handsomest of the Sons?” Ellisif eyed her, doubtful. “I think your husband would have something to say about that.”

Safira batted the air. “Gunnar? His appeal is nothing to me.”

“You’re avoiding my question.” Ellisif splashed more cyser into Safira’s horn. “Is it a great secret, how you bent Longsword to your will? He has been iron-clad that Rouen’s leaders must marry Vikings.”

Clamor reached the rafters. Ivar the blacksmith roared with laughter at a jest shared with Thorvald. Rough farmers gathered around the Sons, their eyes aglow. Housekarls and merchants melted into the awestruck crowd. They clapped the Sons’ backs, their hearty congratulations salting the air.

With silver-filigreed horn in hand, Longsword held court at his table. The blaze from every soapstone lamp painted him a king. A conqueror. The Franks might call him Count , but to all of Vikingdom, he was a jarl of the highest standing.

Perhaps even a threat to them.

Safira was confident in one man. Rurik. His gaze touched hers like a caress across the hall. Softened by him, she raised her horn in salute. He deserved this moment, this victory. Later, she would have him all to herself.

At last, she answered Ellisif. It wouldn’t hurt to build a friendship with the warrior woman.

“Would you believe me if I said my talents with trade are legendary?”

Ellisif eyed her over her drinking horn. “Possibly.”

Safira sipped the heady cyser. “It came down to food and greed. Astrid told me Longsword has a weakness for cinnamon and that—” she snapped her fingers “—was all it took.”

“Men and their stomachs,” Ellisif scoffed.

Thralls streamed through the doors with aromatic food. Safira sniffed the air. Astrid was liberal with pepper, cinnamon, mustard, and a host of herbs and spices. She knew this because she’d spent a good part of her day in the eldhus . They’d have a fine feast tonight.

“I promised to build Rouen’s spice trade,” she said. “The glint of much silver and gold is one way to a Viking’s heart.”

“And only the daughter of a wealthy spice trader can offer that.” Ellisif bowed her head at Sifira. “Well played.”

A tray of meat seasoned with mustard and pepper teased their noses. When the thrall passed, Rurik caught her eye and waved her to the jarl’s table.

“Enjoy the bounty tonight, Ellisif.”

Ellisif wandered off and found a seat with a visiting merchant from Hedeby while Safira threaded the crowd to the jarl’s table. She passed Thorvald holding up a hunk of pork. He was examining it.

“Just eat it,” Bjorn said. “Safira helped in the kitchen. It’s probably very good.”

The music of laughter and goat bone flutes floated everywhere. Fall’s harvest was richly blessed.

From Midsumarblot to harvest, Vikings flocked to the Arelaune Forest, seeking a foothold with Rurik, the new overlord.

The forest was magical. Beautiful, calling to her with its mysteries.

She and Rurik were in the midst of building their home there, sleeping in the hold of a ship moored off the plot of land where their longhouse would stand.

It was a fine, amusing lesson to discover how little she cared for princes and their stone fortresses.

She had someone better. Much better. He rose to greet her when she approached the jarl’s table. How handsome he was in his blue tunic, his sun-blond hair pulled severely back. Taking her seat beside Rurik, she was barely settled when his hand sought hers.

“I am proud of you,” she said for his ears alone. “You have accomplished a great many things.”

The warmth of his hand matched his tender kiss to her ear. “It is what we do together.”

Because they were meant to be.