by Gina Conkle
“A green glass smoother.” Astrid pointed at the fire pit. “Place it flat side down on the embers. It will take a while before the glass is hot enough, but once it is, grab the round side with a rag to protect your hand. Then you will run the flat part over the wrinkled tunic I put on the table. Do that until the cloth is smooth.”
Safira held the smoother up to the light. Tiny air bubbles were stuck inside glass. “Why are you asking me to do this?”
“Because you prepare Rurik’s tunic for the var.”
“Var? I do not know this word.”
“His pledge to serve the jarl.”
Her chest squeezed. The shade of blue. The yellow embroidery. The jarl’s colors.
“He has won the land?”
Hands folded on her knees, Astrid’s cheeks puffed. “It is not certain. I am to prepare a tunic for Vlad. The men will still fight.” She paused, her sad gaze meeting Safira’s. “Unless something happens today.”
Safira sat back on her heels. Rurik’s death.
“Do not be afraid. This is normal. What Vikings know, what we feel is here.” Astrid jabbed five fingers to her own breastbone. “Valkyries weave a warrior’s fate in battle. It is called vefr darradar... The web of war. We do not run from it. We face it.”
“Does Rurik have to face it with such enthusiasm?”
Astrid’s laugh was hearty. “We are a passionate people.”
“He ran after this chance to fight.”
Astrid’s eyes sparkled. “As he runs after you.”
Yearning swelled inside Safira. What else did the wise woman see between her and Rurik? Love? Lust? Or something in between? Her heart ached when Rurik wasn’t in the same room and it fluttered when he returned. For all the excitement and desire the rough warrior stirred in her, her mind flashed images of storm-blue eyes watching her when they argued, watching her when they talked, watching her when they worked side by side to set up camp.
Tender skin twitched between her legs. There was no denying the Viking’s effect there.
“I do not know what you have been taught. I would think you have learned a good many things, but few of them practical.” Astrid’s smile was tight. “It is the way of highborn Christian woman. They are kept like treasures, hidden away, ill-prepared for life.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Is my status of birth that obvious?”
Astrid huffed. “Like the sun.”
She smiled. “Would it matter if I told you I am Hebrew, not Christian?”
“You are Frankish. That is enough.”
Safira sighed and set the glass on orange embers. Pagans lumped her people with Christians, and Christians regarded Hebrews as a notch above pagans.
“I must get to the weaver’s shed. Ten women are waiting for me at their looms.” Astrid began to rise, her knees cracking. “It will take time for the smoother to reach the proper heat. Why not enjoy the market? When you are done tending Rurik’s tunic, you can join us in the shed.”
Safira pushed off the ground and dusted her skirt. “I am supposed to wait for Erik.”
Astrid’s eyes softened, motherly and kind, yet full of knowing. Safira wanted Astrid to stay. The matselja’s words were like coins stacked in a treasury, meant to be counted and weighed with great consideration.
Safira picked up the tunic and fingered a loose thread. “Let me guess...you want to tell me I should claim my destiny and be done with it. It doesn’t change the fact that Rurik would have me be his frilla.”
“Not a frilla, but a fylgikonur...a mistress of high value.”
She winced at the distinction. Of course, Vikings would have a name for a kept woman’s status. In Christendom, the selection was dismal. Concubine and whore...nameless, faceless positions of low value.
“But not his wife.”
Astrid sighed and checked the door. The older woman didn’t understand. She had lived and loved outside the bonds of marriage while Safira was a game piece within it.
“I would never tell a woman to stay at a man’s side if she didn’t believe that he is her destiny. This is why we Vikings have baratta—” she squeezed Safira’s hand, searching the air “—it is struggle, and lifsbaratta, the struggle for life, a feminine word. One could believe the ancients knew a woman’s struggle is vastly different than a man’s.”
Safira set her hand over Astrid’s. “Thank you.”
The matselja made her way through the hall, swiping crumbs off a table in one spot, pushing in a bench in another. “It is your life, Lady. Find your way and be done with it.”
Astrid exited the longhouse, skirts swaying with purpose. A woman of high value to the jarl. At last night’s feast, there was talk of women owning farmsteads...common women, wealthy and poor, widows and unmarried daughters, granted the land they worked, deciding their futures as they saw fit. Rouen’s dirt tickled Safira’s skin through the hole in her boot.
Never had she been shod so poorly or lived so freely.
Setting the tunic on the table, she couldn’t say she was ready to walk away from what Rurik offered her. Could she be happy living in the half-light of Rurik’s attention once he took a Viking wife?
He’d spoken in his forceful manner this morning as if it weren’t a choice.
Men. What made them think they owned all decisions? The Breton Queen certainly made hers. So had Astrid. And Ellisif. Even quiet Gyda.
A soft laugh escaped her. No one would steal this right from her. To stay with Rurik or go was hers to decide.
First, he needed to come back.
“Safira.” Erik’s voice growled from the lintel. Legs in a wide stance and face scowling, he was the picture of resentment.
“You have watch over me, but I do not need it.”
“Whether you need it or not doesn’t matter.” His chest expanded with a long, measured breath. “Look. We don’t like each other, but we’re stuck together until Rurik returns.” Erik checked the skies. “The sun is out, and I don’t want to play nursemaid inside.”
“What a fine offer.”
His scowl deepened.
She’d not prod the surly Viking. The day was clear, and the glass smoother would take time to heat up. She sauntered through the hall and stopped in front of Erik. Wet hair slicked off his face, he chewed a long blade of grass, his black-whiskered jaws working.
“Let’s get one thing straight. You may not like me.” She poked the wolf carved into his vest. “But I like you.”
Bloodshot eyes widened. The blade he chewed twitched faster. Sharp. Controlled. These were Erik of Birka’s watchwords. She’d seen it in the precise fire rings he made, the routines when he cooked for his band of brothers, and the darker, violent edge that haunted him. Of all the Sons, life had been harshest to dark-haired Erik. She felt it in her bones...his near black eyes flashing like a wounded creature in rare moments, a primal beast in others.
“Change troubles you,” she said quietly. “More than the others, I think. But I do not fault you for that. Of all the Forgotten Sons, I’d say you value loyalty the most. You are their fiercest defender.”
His head cocked. “What makes you say that?”
“The night we camped near Abbod village. You were the first to question me about the spice trade and to doubt my learning Norse in a kitchen.”
“That makes me smart. Not loyal.”
She stepped into the open road, her face basking in the sun. Pleasant noises of Rouen’s market carried on a breeze. Laughter and conversation. She needed this to ease the tense ribbon inside her from Rurik’s leaving. And she liked the Forgotten Sons, each one talented in his own right. Knowing them was a key to knowing Rurik.
Eyes closed, sunshine poured over her. “Tell me. When you learned Rurik came here to claim a holding, who was the first of the Sons to say he’d stay with Rurik?”
“Me.”
Ope
n-eyed, she faced Erik, fighting to contain her smile.
The dark-haired Viking fought a smile too. “Don’t let that go to your head.”
She laughed loud, startling two boys passing them with a herd of goats. Three giggling girls ran barefoot between the jarl’s hall and the weaver’s shed where Astrid’s voice carried from open doors.
“I would guess Bjorn was next and the others followed,” she said, quite pleased with herself.
Erik’s grin was grudging. “I’ll have to watch my step around you.” He tossed aside the blade of grass and notched his head at the village below. “I have to see the blacksmith about a hinge for Wandrille Abbey’s door. Why don’t you walk with me and tell me about these...insights of yours?”
She spun around, her plain skirt flaring around her legs. They walked to the village, the smell of charred wood heavy in the air. Flames licked two blackened boats sinking in the Seine. The people of Rouen must’ve cut free the jarl’s boats and let the river claim them. It was the only way to save the other boats moored nearby.
Erik tucked both hands behind his back. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Your insights.”
They walked along the river lane, passing a matron haggling over a glass bead necklace. The woman in the stall had to be the glassmaker Astrid spoke of. She was pretty, a breeze teasing her butter-blonde hair. Her cornflower-blue gaze snagged with Erik’s. His step hitched, and Safira smiled behind her fingers. Rouen might prove to have treasures for each Forgotten Son.
“For all the Sons? Or just you?” She stopped to examine an ivory comb at the next stall.
“Just me.”
Jet-black eyes searched her. Loneliness. Isolation. Bleak, poisonous rage lurked in their depths. She set the comb down. He deserved her full attention.
“I think you are an artist forced to live by the sword. You have a keen mind and a deeply wounded soul...if Vikings even believe in a soul.”
“We don’t. We believe a man or woman is born with luck.”
Nodding quietly, she digested his words. “I believe you are the most savage of all the Sons.”
“You’re not a seeress, but you read people well. I’ll give you that.” He grimaced at noisy matrons gathering and tipped his head at the road. “Where did you learn this skill?”
Tucking her hands behind her back, she matched Erik’s meander. “Savta. My grandmother. She taught me about knowing the goods and the people who wish to buy them.”
“Your grandmother is a spice trader?”
She stared at the toes of her boots as they walked. Rurik had warned her to keep quiet about this. To admit she was the daughter of a spice merchant was all but giving up her identity. What harm could come of telling Erik?
“No. My father is.”
His gaze cut sideways. “A spice merchant’s daughter. It’s a far step down to be companion to a Viking.”
Ivar’s forge was in the distance. The blacksmith pulled a flaming sword from hot coals. He doused it in a barrel with a searing hiss of vapors spiraling around his bulk.
“You soften the blow for me, Erik. Don’t you mean fylgikonur?”
“Rurik taught you a new Viking word.” Erik’s graveled voice hinted at no emotion.
He stopped ten paces from the blacksmith’s forge, the harsh mask he usually wore gone. Hair cut short and eyes blacker than night, Erik stood out amongst Vikings. More viper than wolf, his past was a tight-fisted secret. She knew it in her bones.
Erik untied a leather purse knotted to his belt. “Put out your hand.”
She did, and he dropped coins into her palm.
“What goes on between you and Rurik is for the two of you to decide. But—” his dark eyes pierced her “—I know he can be...single-minded in going after something he wants.”
Her skin pebbled. Last night with Rurik. Being the focus of his single-mindedness wasn’t all bad. But, it wasn’t all good either.
“What are you saying to me?”
“I’m saying if you want to leave, I won’t stand in your way.” Erik retied the pouch. “I ask only that you wait for Rurik’s return before you make your decision.”
That was all the help she’d get from Erik. His veiled words were a boon. Much more than she expected. The money was too. Sunlight shined on coins from Hedeby, Wessex, and Paris.
“You’re giving me money to escape?”
Erik smiled, a show of warmth that curved nicely at the corners of his mouth. “I would never do that. Rurik asked me to give you coin to spend in the market. Never said how much.”
Her hand closed over the shiny pieces. She didn’t own a leather purse in which to hold them.
“The day is yours to do as you see fit,” he said. “I’m off to see Ivar about a new hinge.”
“You do not require me at your side?”
“Stay within eyesight of me. You’ll be safe.” With a curt nod, Erik turned and hailed the blacksmith.
The sun beat down on her head, less cheery than before. Could the truth be any plainer? What went on with Rurik was no different than what went on at home. Someone else dictated her coming and going. Here in Rouen, Rurik controlled the purse strings. At home, it was her mother. Here Rurik had a say in her status. At home, such details were negotiated by her mother.
When they journeyed to Rouen, she’d felt free.
Wandering through the market, a fist full of coins, she was no less free today.
“Did you tire of smoothing the wrinkles from Rurik’s tunic?”
Her head snapped up. Vlad lounged against the side of a fur trader’s stall. A bear pelt with jaws splayed wide hung over his head. How fitting. Vlad’s mouth split with what he surely counted as a smile. It gave her the shivers.
“I am waiting for the glass smoother to heat up.”
He bit into a pear, the juice spraying his beard. He chewed the fruit slowly. Facing him was like seeing a cruel, future version of Rurik...if he followed his father’s path. Both were low-born Vikings. Both led a small band of men. Both sought fame, vying for a higher place in life.
“I’m surprised you know what a glass smoother is.” Vlad’s stare moseyed over her from head to hem. “I’m equally surprised to find a highborn woman tending to my son’s needs.”
A hot roil sickened her belly. “I must be on my way.”
She darted across the road and stopped at the first stall. The comb seller. Safira squeezed the coins in hand, the metal edges biting her skin. The young woman minding the stall conversed with a matron shepherding a gaggle of children.
A pear core rolled past her hem.
Vlad was a shadow at her back.
“You’re not losing me that easily.” His voice was a husky version of Rurik’s.
A hand closed over her elbow. Fingers pinched her, intent on keeping her in place. She checked the blacksmith’s forge. She should’ve gone straight to Erik’s side. Vlad’s gaze flicked to the dark-haired warrior deep in conversation with Ivar over a newly crafted sword.
“If Erik looks this way, you will smile and give him a reassuring nod.”
She tried to jerk her arm away, but his grip was firm. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” he mused. “Land. Wealth. To feast in Valhalla as a famed warrior.” His chuckle was a dry rasp. “Not much, really.”
Was Vlad jesting with her?
He guided her to the river, his steps deceptively casual. His profile was a rigid line against blue sky. This close, she’d put his age somewhere in the middle of his fourth decade. If Rurik was nearing thirty, the father had to have had the son at a young age. Sixteen? Or seventeen? He wore his grey-streaked blond hair like the jarl’s, a single thick band four fingers wide, a braid starting above his forehead and trailing down his skull to his back. Sun shined on the side of his freshly shaved head.
; Children scampered by, their wooden swords clacking in mock battle. Vlad’s hooded stare followed them.
“Rurik practiced with a real sword.”
“You gave him his sword?”
Vlad squinted at the river, releasing his hold on her. “No. He used mine. Until he raised it against me.”
“He was eleven.”
“My son told you the story?”
“He told me enough.”
She fisted well-traveled coins against her breast bone. The flat tang of metal in her sweating palm reached her nose. Vlad stood shoulder to shoulder with her, watching the two dying ships. A slow crackle. A hiss. Wood collapsed, and the Seine devoured the jarl’s small fishing boat.
From her side vision, she caught Vlad’s stony profile. It buckled a split second. In pain?
“It’s a mistake for a son to raise a sword against his father,” he said, folding beefy arms across his chest. “I left after that, but he probably told you that too.”
In the river, the larger drakkar ship wasn’t giving up without a fight. It listed sideways. The center snapped, and water crept up the prow. Merchants and patrons alike paused to shade their eyes for a view. Three boys raced to the riverbank to watch the drowning dragon head until it disappeared for good.
The people of Rouen went about their day, herding goats and children, buying and selling goods. Conversation buzzed. Trade carried on. A breeze kissed Safira’s cheeks, and she checked the southern forest line. A no man’s land of wildness and violence. Rurik had ridden headlong into those dark woods.
“My son will return. I am sure of it.” Vlad toed a rock through a patch of grass.
Was the brash Viking...nervous? They’d carried on a stilted conversation staring at sinking vessels. Bored of waiting, she faced him.
“What do you want from me?”
His chuckle was a valiant effort. “Who are you? Why does Rurik keep you?”
“I am Safira of Paris. With your second question, you’ll have to ask Rurik.”
“Don’t play me for a fool, woman. What were you? A wealthy man’s concubine?”
She laughed. Men. Even free-thinking Vikings wanted to reduce a woman to a role, whatever worked neatly with their needs. “Rurik asked me the same question.” A light shake of her head and, “I spoke the truth to you. What more can I say?”