by Gina Conkle
Bjorn squinted at Sothram’s men milling in the yard. “You trust this woman?”
Rurik stood beside him, counting the Saxon’s fighters. Five of them. “I distrust Sothram.”
“I’ll get the men.”
Bjorn disappeared through a back door. Rurik leaned against a wood beam, hooking both thumbs in his belt. One of Sothram’s men mumbled behind his hand, and several pairs of eyes shifted to the barn’s open door. Good. He wanted the men focused on him, all the better to miss Bjorn.
Chickens flocked to a young girl tossing grain in the yard. Florid-faced Sothram exited his feast hall, speaking to a wiry man armed with bow and arrows. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke from torches freshly doused. Rosy-cheeked milkmaids shuffled into the barn, their buckets clanking.
“Morning,” he drawled.
The tittering maids passed him to attend braying goats. His side vision caught movement outside. A black-cloaked figure charged toward the barn.
“Here now.” The merchant reached for the interloper and gave his captive a bone-jarring shake. “What are ye about this morning?”
The hood slipped and a woman’s head whipped back and forth like a rag doll. The thrall. She pummeled Sothram’s bulk, her fists as ineffective as moths striking stone.
“Let go of me, you—you—”
Frowning, Rurik stepped outside the barn. “Sothram.”
The Saxon glanced at him. “Rurik.”
The thrall twisted to break free, her face set toward Rurik. Her eyes rounded with silent plea until sausage-thick fingers dug into her arms.
She yelped in pain. “Stop it!”
“Are you going to dally with your thrall?” Rurik called out. “Or finish our business?”
“This one’s been sneakin’ around. Can’t trust the likes of her. Man’s got to keep order in his home.”
“Your woman troubles are no concern of mine.” Behind Sothram, five warriors dressed in black strode through the mist. “My men and I are ready to leave.”
The Saxon released the woman. Shoulders squared, she wrapped her frayed cloak about her. Rurik willed her to go quietly to the trees, but she swung her shabby, boot-covered foot back, and with the poor aim of an angry woman, kicked dirt at Sothram.
“Odious swine,” she said, to the hoots of Sothram’s men.
The spray of earth on the Saxon’s shin was puny, but the insult grave. The large man roared and lunged for her. Chickens and ducks scurried in all directions. The thrall dashed wide-eyed across the yard and flung herself into Rurik’s arms. A few of Sothram’s mangy men-at-arms slunk around the corner of the barn. Eight of them now in the yard.
“What’s this?” The Saxon glowered. “Hand her over. She’s mine by rights.”
Rurik needed her to be obedient. His instructions had been simple: go quietly to the trees. He checked the area, one arm holding the woman close. Three of his men fanned out behind Sothram’s men. Faint morning light gleamed off Bjorn’s iron helmet. His second set a hand on the packhorse, nodding grimly.
“Of course she is.” Rurik’s voice rang loud. “You can keep her.”
The thrall gaped at him. It was laughable how fast her fair mouth turned shrewish.
“You, you...” she sputtered, and her Norse switched to rapid words he couldn’t understand.
He didn’t know the tongue but guessed the she-cat called him something worse than odious swine. He wasn’t going to leave the woman, but he’d not explain himself. Stifling a grin, he hugged her body flush to his. This was one way to tame her.
“First, we have the matter of my furs.”
“What?” Sothram’s lips curled against his teeth. “My man Hans wrapped the ermine last eve. Protects ’em from dampness, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Just as I told you, Viking.” The muffled words came from his ribs.
“Yer listenin’ to the likes of her?” Sothram barked rude laughter. “I should let ye have her. Not worth the silver I paid. A haughty viper’s tongue, she has.”
“I don’t need a woman. I need my furs. They are what I traded for.”
“Ye got ’em packed all nice and pretty.” Sothram spat at the ground and grappled for his knife. “Time ye leave.”
Sothram’s men advanced, but the Sons were faster. Blood pulsing, Rurik pushed the thrall behind him. He rushed the Saxon, his sword ringing as he unsheathed iron. The merchant’s blade never cleared leather.
Rurik jerked the man by his tunic and stuck Fenrir’s tip between the fat folds on Sothram’s neck. “I leave when I have my furs.”
Metal clashed to Rurik’s left. Men landed in the dirt, grunting in pain. Wood splintered from Bjorn snapping arrows over his thigh, the broken shafts scattering like twigs. The Sons brandished axes over Sothram’s fallen men. Of the eight, five were out cold. The other three were on their knees.
To his right, a rotund woman screamed. Sothram’s wife. She ran shrieking into the yard, belly shaking and hands fluttering wildly. Two gaunt thralls followed her, their arms brimming with wool-wrapped mounds. Rurik smiled coldly. Plush white ermine, the fur of kings, dangled from the open ends. He didn’t need the prideful thrall’s help after all. His furs came to him.
Sothram’s chest heaved with labored, fetid breaths. The merchant’s eyes slanted at his wife. “Tell ’em to load the furs, Hilda, and quit yer screams.”
The hollow-eyed men rushed to cut the bundles. Rags poured underfoot as they scrambled to strap the ermine onto docile packhorses. The yard stayed silent except for defeated men panting on their knees.
Rurik tightened his grip on the merchant’s tunic. “Do you know what I do to men like you?”
The Saxon’s beady eyes rounded. “Wh-what?”
“I make the world a better place.” His voice was low and lethal. “A world free of one less cheat.”
He angled his sword high for the killing thrust, but footfalls pattered the dirt. A small body launched at him.
“No!” A girl’s fists beat his thigh. “Leave Father alone.”
Sothram’s wife screamed, rocking back and forth on bare feet, her apron clutched to her mouth. The round-faced child strained to get between Rurik and Sothram. She couldn’t be more than five or six.
On his left, slender fingers touched his shoulder. The amber-eyed thrall. “Please, Viking. I loathe the man, but let him live.”
Rurik, his arm raised for the death strike, took measure of the slave. “I would’ve thought you the most bloodthirsty of all.”
She paled under apricot skin, and the same hand that had touched his knee in bed touched his sword hand to stay the kill.
“Sheathe your weapon. You have what belongs to you, and your men are unharmed.” A moment passed and her voice gentled for his ears alone. “Even a warrior such as you must know there are times when the force of your hand is not the answer.”
The woman’s refined accent found a hidden place inside him, a whisper, a stirring akin to leaves rustling in a forest. Force and bloodshed was his life, a language he understood. Kill or be killed. Life was simple as that. But there was no denying the odd seed the woman planted. Perhaps she did have an otherworldly gift, because her presence rattled him.
Rurik released Sothram, his gaze locked on the slave. Her face set to his, the woman didn’t flinch. The Saxon tottered back, gulping air. His wife grabbed the little girl, raced back to the feasting hall, and banged the door behind her. Uncanny silence poured over Rurik, bringing with it the slave woman’s unusual peppery scent. Why did she show weakness? Most would cry bloodlust revenge, not beg mercy for another, especially one as mean-spirited as Sothram.
Fenrir glinted in his hand, the hungry metal denied. The blade arced in a wide, unhurried half circle until the tip touched the earth.
“Please,” she murmured. “Let us leave this place.”
Fog clea
red from his head. “Yes. We ride.” He pointed at one of the male thralls and spoke louder. “You there. Saddle another horse for the maid. Her mount and her release to me will be gifts from Sothram for his slight against me and my men.” He pointed to the other young thrall. “Clean up those rags. When you’re done, get my belongings and put them by my horse.”
The first young man sprinted to the barn while the other dropped to his knees to gather the fallen rags. Sunshine trickled through morning’s vapor. Ducks waddled into the yard, a pair of them flapping their wings, quacking over a morsel in the dirt.
The ebon-haired woman still faced him. “My thanks, Viking. For a moment, I thought you were going to leave me.”
“And I thought you would go quietly to the trees. For a thrall, you don’t take orders well.”
One brow arched. “I was walking to the barn because you were there.”
“Because you didn’t trust me to keep our bargain?”
“Because being with you was the safest place to be.”
Smart woman. Trust was a thin thread here, and she wasn’t taking any chances. He couldn’t blame her. He was a wandering Viking who sold his unique talents to the highest bidder. The Sons followed the exchange, grins splitting Bjorn’s and Erik’s faces. They knew he was no savior of women.
“I didn’t set out to stir up trouble, but I won’t cower from it. You saw how he grabbed me.” Haughtiness limned her accented Norse. “The Saxon got exactly what he deserved.”
His smile was reluctant. She had spirit. In the right measure, her presence could be entertaining. No one could begrudge her attacking Sothram’s shin. He’d been ready to do worse. But his word was law. She needed to understand this.
He jabbed Fenrir’s tip deeper in the soil. “If you ride with me, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
The thrall fixed her cloak, a picture of well-mannered calm. “Then, I shall go to the trees now.”
She treaded an uneven path through the yard, watching him over her shoulder. Frayed hems skimmed smooth-skinned calves. The way she walked, her steps rhythmic and graceful, he could almost hear fine-soled slippers tapping polished stone floors.
Images of foreign, high-born women floated before him, their silk-covered heads turning to peruse the length of him. Some scorned him, a beast of burden, a hired sword ripe for their disdain. Others whispered perfumed invitations, craving roughness in their beds. How little they knew him. It didn’t matter. He’d slaked his lust on them, quenching their bodies to their last pleasured cry before leaving them exhausted in their fur-strewn beds.
But this amber-eyed woman...
Who was she? A runaway wife? A favored concubine ambushed by a rival and sold in the dark of night?
His grip on Fenrir tightened. He would unlock her riddles, piece by piece, touch by touch, and take what he wanted.
Chapter Two
A split-second given to a woman could change a man. That was the problem with the fair sex. They were thieves, stealing a man’s focus. He shouldn’t let the black-haired maid get in his head, but she did. What happened next in the Saxon’s yard came fast as a single breath of air.
A bearish yell erupted.
“Rurik! Behind—” Bjorn’s warning was cut off.
“Arhhh!” Sothram leaped at Rurik, waving a knife.
Battle’s coppery taste spurted in Rurik’s mouth. Another scream rent the air. The thrall. She pointed at him. In the corner of his vision, a wicked blade gleamed. He pivoted—too late.
A sickening chunk sounded, and searing pain shot deep in his shoulder.
Sothram pulled out the knife and raised it to strike again.
Teeth gnashing, Rurik swung Fenrir high. The flat of the sword smashed the Saxon’s temple. Blood and sweat sprayed the dirt. The merchant dropped his knife, a red rivulet gushing from his hair to his cheek. Sothram wobbled a step and, eyes rolling back into his head, his bulky frame crumpled to the ground.
Rurik stood over the Saxon, blood beading Fenrir’s tip. The end of his sword touched the man’s life vein on his neck. Lungs billowing, he craved the kill, the need for it pulsing as natural as his heartbeat.
How easy. One push...
Even a man such as you must know there are times when the force of your hand is not the answer.
The thrall’s words haunted him. The little Saxon girl’s teary eyes needled him too, because the world was not kind to fatherless girls.
Teeth bared, he growled low and wiped his sword clean across the merchant’s tunic. Sothram didn’t deserve another day, but his daughter deserved a father even if he was a cheat. Sheathing his sword, sharpness burned high on Rurik’s back. He slapped a hand over his shoulder. Warm slickness seeped between his fingers. Not keeping his eye on Sothram was an error worthy of a stripling youth.
He scowled at his blood-stained hand.
“Learn this if you want to live. Good warriors react. The best warriors act first.” His father’s words of wisdom before his fist had slammed Rurik to the ground. He was eight then. Stayed flat on his back all morning.
Vlad knew how to make a lesson stick.
Footsteps scampered in the yard. The thrall reached for him. “Your shoulder.”
“Do as you’re told,” he snapped. “Go to the trees.”
Her hands jerked back. Cheeks flushing, she whirled around and ran to the horses. With an eye to his men standing over Sothram’s cowed fighters, Rurik swiped his palm across his chest.
Gruff-voiced Erik yanked a Saxon’s head up by his hair and set an axe to the man’s throat. “Well?”
“Every man lives to see another day.”
Erik’s dark eyes widened, but no one questioned the command. Bjorn stepped forward, the iron rings of his mail neck-cover clinking.
“You heard him, men.” The giant of Vellefold issued rapid orders. “Gunnar. Thorvald. Bind these fools in the barn and burn their bows and arrows. Toss the other weapons down the well.” Bjorn turned to the other two. “Erik. Thorfinn. Take our host to his bed and see if his lady has spare provisions.”
The men bolted to action. Erik and Thorfinn hefted the sprawled Saxon by his arms and legs. The feast hall’s door opened a sliver. Sothram’s wife and daughter peeked through the opening, tears streaming down their cheeks.
“Pay fair coin for the provisions,” Rurik announced, rubbing the last of the blood on his fingers across his chest. “And Erik, let Thorfinn do the asking. Sothram’s lady has had enough of a fright. She isn’t to blame having a fool for a husband.”
Erik’s dark-whiskered jaw worked a semblance of a grin. The mountainous Thorfinn, earnest about every task, nodded as he and Erik hauled Sothram to the hall.
Bjorn walked across the yard, his war hammer tipped over his shoulder. “Odd morning.”
“We’ve been attacked before.”
“True. But you’ve never turned your back on an enemy. Not ’til they were dead or tied up. Nor have you given mercy to one such as Sothram. Were you—” Bjorn nudged his head in the thrall’s direction “—distracted by someone else?”
Feet planted wide, Rurik crossed his arms. His cut stung and he itched not to relive his mistake. “The men are well. I got our furs. What’s the problem?”
“No problem.” Bjorn matched his wide-legged stance. “Never have you let a woman ride with us. Goes against our laws. The men won’t like it.”
“I know our laws. The men will bear it.”
A fledgling fire burst to life by the barn, the work of Thorvald nursing the blaze with broken bows and arrows. One of Sothram’s young male thralls came from the outbuilding where Rurik had slept. He carried Rurik’s red-and-black shield in one hand, a rolled-up sleeping fur and leather saddle bags in the other—all of Rurik’s earthly goods.
“The thrall spoke in a foreign tongue,” Bjorn said. “Is she from a desert kingdom?”
&n
bsp; Rurik checked the trees, where the maid stroked a horse’s muzzle. Her gold stare followed Gunnar dragging an unconscious man to the barn. Shiny, straight black hair fell to her waist. She was fair of face with full lips and silken skin, though not a beauty with her strong nose.
Did a cruel, foreign husband tire of her defiance and sell her? He could think of better ways to curb the woman’s haughtiness.
“I only know she’s prideful and didn’t heed me when I bid her wait by the trees.”
And my help means much to her. He’d keep that to himself.
“Where do we take her?”
“She asked to go to Paris.”
“Long time since we’ve been there.”
“I promised her safe passage for her warning.” He faced his second, his voice steely. “Make sure the men know this.”
Bjorn’s brows shot high inside his helmet’s iron eye-rings. The unspoken claim was clear—the woman belonged to Rurik. No one could touch her.
“I will let the men know when I tell them we go to Rouen by way of Paris first.”
“No.” Rurik’s smile thinned. “We go to Rouen as planned. I promised her safe passage. Never said where to. Tell the men if she speaks of journeying to Paris, they are to go along with it.”
Chickens pecked their way into the yard again. Flames hissed as Thorvald poured oil on the inferno. Except for the blood-splattered earth and burning bows and arrows, a casual visitor would think this a sleepy outpost.
“You are...keeping the woman?” Bjorn scanned the yard, his voice quiet.
“For a time. As it suits me.” Rurik stepped on a small stone and ground it into soft soil. “She could bring a nice ransom from whoever lost her, though she claims to be a thrall.”
Bjorn snorted. “If she’s a thrall, I’m the king of Paris.”
“Thrall or not, there is no surety she belongs to a wealthy man, or that he would buy her back.”
“Then uncovering the truth falls on you.” Bjorn’s smile split wide. “And should you sample the goods before returning her, none would gainsay you.”