Page 6 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Three

R urik removed his helmet, sweat sticky on his forehead.

A smithy’s hammer pinged behind palisades spearing brilliant blue skies.

Abbod village lay ahead. They’d crossed the north border into Will Longsword’s land, but he’d wager only Christians inhabited Abbod.

Thatch roofs peeked above the spiked fence, square structures the Christians favored, not round homes pagan tribes preferred or Viking longhouses.

The Cailly River’s musical rush drifted through trees lining the road. The water invited dirty travelers to take a drink and rest, but he itched to keep going. He had five days to reach Rouen in time for Jarl Will Longsword’s Midsumarblot feast.

“Rurik.” Thorvald jerked a thumb at the thrall. “What’s she doing riding with us?”

“She rides with you because your leader says so,” the maid cut in. “And she has a name. Safira.”

Safira sipped from a pouch, bright-eyed and wind-blown in the shade with the others atop their horses in a broad patch of grass. The lone rider on the road, Rurik swigged water. The battle was coming.

“A woman.” Thorvald chewed the last word. “What about our law?”

“Bad idea having a woman along. Slows a man down.” Erik stated his opinion as fact.

“And they’re weak.” Thorvald grimaced. “Especially the foreign ones.”

Rurik curbed a smile when Safira nudged her horse forward and bumped the giant’s chestnut.

She’d long ago given up covering herself.

Black wool hung from her neck, the ragged cloak a dusty, twisted coil trailing her spine to her horse’s haunch.

Safira’s sorry excuse of a tunic clung knee-high to dirt-smeared legs.

She was a sight, sitting tall in the saddle, holding her own with Thorvald.

The smash-faced warrior was the roughest of the lot.

“I saved your hides, no?” She smiled at the men. “If I did it once, I may do so again.”

Thorvald howled. “A woman ? Save me?” Fist jammed on his thigh, he leaned over in his saddle, the two braids framing his face swinging forward. “You look like trouble.”

“Enough.” Bjorn’s voice boomed. “Rurik says she rides with us. Then she rides.”

Thorfinn inched his steed closer. Intent, hazel eyes sought Rurik before giving Safira a quick assessment. Three silver clips banded his beard’s small braid from chin to chest. His nose hadn’t met with near as many fists as his twin brother, Thorvald.

“The Sons have never harbored a woman before.” Thorfinn’s voice rumbled with calm. “I trust our laws, but I trust Rurik more.”

Rurik averted his eyes, the simple words— I trust Rurik more —scalding him.

“And our law says, No women ,” Thorvald grumbled.

“Thorvald.” Rurik’s voice rose abruptly. He gave the smallest shake of his head and the giant fell silent.

Gunnar removed his helmet and swiped his arm brace across his forehead.

Born with a face that made women weak-kneed, the flaxen-haired warrior always drew feminine sighs.

Rurik waited for tell-tale mooning from the thrall, but Safira was more intent on quenching her thirst than staring at Gunnar while he spoke to her.

“Forgive Thorvald his surliness. He gets like that when he’s hungry.”

Bjorn chuckled. “He’s like that when he’s fed too.”

Laughter rippled through the men. Erik poured water onto his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Rurik,” Thorfinn called out. “The horses need water and rest.” He pointed at the pack horses’ foam-flecked muzzles. “These two are not accustomed to a full day’s riding.”

Bjorn steered his horse to the road. “I can tell you want to keep going, but there is the matter of thirsty horses and hungry men.”

“I know.” Rurik flexed his sore shoulder, an eye to the village.

“Thorvald will eat his boot if we don’t give him food.” Bjorn rested both hands on his pommel. “Do we go to the village for the woman’s sake? Or camp here at the side of the road?”

Raids had dwindled since Rollo’s rule. Norse wolves now guarded lands they’d once invaded. Still, Frankish folk barred their doors like skittish virgins when Vikings came around. Six Viking warriors on horseback breaching Abbod’s gate could stir up unnecessary trouble.

“We’ll camp here,” Rurik announced.

Bjorn got off his horse. “You heard him, men. All of you. To your tasks.”

Rurik dismounted, his wound throbbing when both feet hit the ground. Heat bloomed a wide circle under his vest. He smacked the pained shoulder, but no blood wet his hand.

Safira winced atop her horse. “There is much sunlight. Can we rest, water the horses, and then ride on?”

Shaking his head, Thorfinn kindly took her reins. “I’m afraid not. Rurik has spoken.”

“You say it as if his word is law, no?”

“We share in most decisions, but he has final say. It’s been that way since we were boys.”

Safira leaned forward in the saddle as if to spare her rump. Rurik walked his horse off the road, smiling privately at the maid’s determination to keep going. She held up better than Thorvald, a comparison the warrior would not like.

Or she dreaded nightfall.

“What are these laws you spoke of?” she asked, rubbing her bottom.

Thorfinn stroked the palfrey’s nose. “We have three. The first is, Sons serve each other .”

Thorvald dismounted on nimble feet. “It means work or you’re gone.”

With that parting shot delivered, he led his horse and both pack horses to a rope Gunnar strung between trees. Startled birds flew from high-up branches. Rurik untied his leather bags and sleeping fur from his horse, an ear cocked to Thorfinn explaining their laws.

“The second law, A life saved receives equal reward . My guess is Rurik decided to honor you.”

“Except no blood was shed,” Bjorn put in.

Safira’s rubbing stopped. “What does that mean?”

“The sacrifice must be great,” Thorfinn said. “Bloodshed on behalf of another is a sign of one’s sacrifice.”

“Your third law must be?—”

“No. Women.” Erik’s graveled voice rose from the ground where he set rocks for a fire ring.

Rurik dropped his bag and sleeping fur on the ground, Bjorn’s words in his head.

Uncover the truth . Extracting information from a man was easy.

But a woman untried in battle? Different tactics altogether.

He’d watched his ebon-haired riddle all day.

Safira was exotic yet thoroughly Frankish.

She was also confident, if a touch over-bold.

Worthy qualities. She sat a horse well, but her features wrenched in pain as if the saddle had rubbed skin raw in places under her skirt.

Equally interesting was her independence.

Not once had the Paris maid clung to him during brief water stops.

She could at least need him. A little. Perhaps show gratitude for saving her from Sothram.

And until now she’d been blessedly quiet.

Too quiet. No man could wrest information from a silent woman.

Yet Safira conversed easily with Thorfinn, her skein of black hair falling forward as she hung on his tale of the early days.

“Growing up we helped each other survive Birka.”

She scanned the men, each doing his part to set up camp. “You are all from that outpost?”

“Except for Bjorn. He was born in Vellefold. Came to Birka when he was twelve.”

“I have heard of Birka. A place once known for its iron and fur trade. It houses many Viking warriors, does it not?”

“It did once. Now it’s a dying outpost, feeding on its own people.

” Thorfinn fingered his silver beard band, his stare drifting to the forest. “It has become a rough, forsaken place. Been that way for a long time,” he scoffed.

“Drawing shiftless warriors and berserkers. Bored men, ready to prey on the weak.”

“Your fathers did not stop them?”

Thorfinn laughed without humor. “Never met mine. The only father I met was Vlad, and he wasn’t a good man.” He tapped the outer shell of his ear. “He’s the one who cut Rurik’s ear.”

“He cut his son’s ear?”

Rurik ducked his head to hide a smile. The cut to his ear was nothing. Vlad had done worse, but Safira’s shock and outrage filled a spot inside him. Perhaps she’d loosen up and spill her secrets. Thorfinn spat on the ground.

“Vlad turned his back on his family and on Birka. We became a pack of fatherless boys running wild. Rurik often took blows meant for us. That is until the day he beat one warrior senseless.” His smile was a cold glint of teeth. “They left us alone after that.”

“What do you mean, ‘took blows’?”

“Thorfinn.” Rurik toed his leather bag against a rock. “Can’t you see her horse is parched?”

A little information was good. Too much was dangerous. The maid didn’t need to know any more. His past belonged to him. He was the one to ask questions, not her.

Safira looked to Thorfinn. “I could use some help getting down...my legs, they hurt.”

“Ask Rurik.”

“But you’re right here.”

Thorfinn faced the road, his chest expanding with a long-suffering inhale. Rurik took pity on the man. For all his size, his gentle nature got the best of him, but the order had been given. Safira belonged to Rurik. Thorfinn wouldn’t touch her, not even to help her dismount.

Rurik strolled across the clearing. “Need help getting down?”

Her lips pursed. “There is no nee?—”

He gripped Safira’s waist and plucked her from the saddle mid-sentence, catching Thorfinn’s long, relieved exhale as he led her horse to the trees. She tried to step away, but Rurik held her in place. A pretty scowl marred her features.

“What is the meaning of this, Viking?” If she were a cat, he’d say her hackles were raised and her tail was snapping side to side.

“No one touches you but me.”

Hands clamped on her waist began to slide up her ribs.

Crude wool rustled, the fabric snagging on his palms. She bristled when his fingers grazed the sides of her breasts before traveling up her arms to her shoulders.

Safira’s high neckline gapped, giving him a glimpse of the upper curves of her pale, hidden fruit.