by Gina Conkle
Epilogue
Six 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. 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.
Oaths given, the men stood to roars that shook the rafters.
Ellisif sidled up to Safira, two drinking horns in hand. “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.” She 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.”
“Would you believe me if I said my talents with trade are legendary?”
“Possibly.”
Safira sipped the heady cyser. “It came down to food. Astrid told me Longsword has a weakness for cinnamon and that—” she snapped her fingers “—was all it took.”
“The promise of cinnamon?” Ellisif huffed. “A man can be easily bought.”
Thralls streamed through the doors with food.
“And spice trade coming to Rouen.” A tray brimming meat seasoned with mustard and pepper teased their noses. “You will enjoy the bounty tonight.”
The jarl’s table was put back in place. Rurik caught her eye and waved her over. The feast was about to begin. Ellisif found a seat with a visiting merchant from Hedeby while Safira threaded through the crowd to the jarl’s table. She passed Thorvald holding up a hunk of pork. He examined it. Sniffed it.
“Just eat it,” Bjorn said. “Safira helped in the kitchen. It’s probably very good.”
The hall filled with the music of laughter and goat bone flutes. Fall’s harvest was richly blessed. She and Rurik were in the midst of building their home, sleeping in the hold of a ship moored off the plot of land where their longhouse would stand. From Midsumarblot to harvest, Vikings flocked to the Arelaune Forest, seeking a foothold with Rurik, the new overlord.
She took a 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 the warmth of his kiss to her ear. “It is what we do together.”
Because they were always meant to be.
* * * * *
Look for Bjorn’s story in HER VIKING WARRIOR, the next book in the FORGOTTEN SONS series, coming soon from Gina Conkle and Carina Press.
Author Note
The original leaders of Normandy (in successive order), Rollo, Will Longsword, and Richard the Fearless were called by various titles. Rollo was simply chieftain (later dubbed “jarl” by a 12th century Icelandic historian). Will Longsword was Count of Rouen to the Christians and jarl, chieftain, or ruler to Vikings and other pagan tribes. Later in Richard’s rule, historian Dudo of Saint-Quentin ascribed “Dux” (Latin for leader) to Richard, hence, the Dukes of Normandy.
Of all Normandy’s leaders, Will Longsword was in the unique position of overseeing and bringing back Christians once-terrorized by Vikings while at the same time expanding Rouen’s borders. Longsword pushed boundaries south-southwest into Breton-held land and unoccupied territory. Where I take poetic license is five-fold:
I call land ruled by Longsword Nor’man Land and Rouen. Nor’man Land as a name place did not exist.
By early tenth century, pagan Germanic tribes south of the Seine River were largely gone. Most had converted to Christianity. The few who held their pagan beliefs migrated north of Rouen to Flanders and modern-day Germany. In this series, remnant Germanic tribes live in shifting 10th century border lands between Bretons in the south and Rouen’s Vikings.
Ademar, half-brother to Will Longsword, is purely fictional.
Queen Annick, wife of Viking Rognvald, is purely fictional. She was born in my imagination from that Viking’s brutality. Rognvald seized Nantes, unleashing a reign of terror along the Loire River. Unlike other Vikings, he was happy to let the land rot, Christians flee, and violence reign. It’s unknown if Rognvald married.
Stirrups. Oh, the controversy! India and China had stirrup variants several centuries before this story takes place. Stirrup “technology” trickled slowly westward. Eastern Europe used ropes and wooden blocks—the poor man’s saddle. Those who could afford it equipped their saddles with iron toe holds for mounting, but these wouldn’t hold a rider’s foot for long periods, much less support a standing ride in battle. The Byzantine cavalry adopted metal stirrups closer to what you see today (it’s disputed if the Byzantine army began this in the 5th or 6th century or 8th or 9th century). Historians acknowledge the modern stirrup was used in Western Europe by mid-10th century. But widely used? It’s hard to say. I introduce stirrups two decades earlier.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to my editor, Stephanie Doig, for seeing the big picture with this series and helping these Viking men come to life. She has a talent for story development and a knack for “how much goes where.” She made this a better book. I am also grateful to my agent extraordinaire, Sarah Younger: author whisperer, herder of cats, and general cheerleader. She loved my Vikings back when Vikings weren’t in. Her timing is impeccable. On the personal side, I can’t say enough how Brian (my quiet alpha male husband) is my bulwark, my best-friend, my everything. Lastly, thanks, Mom, for listening to me (4 hours on the phone!) while I laid out this series in rambling fashion. You listened with rapt attention. Thank you.
Ilsa, a woman from Bjorn’s past, challenges him to save Vellefold, the kingdom that exiled him as a boy.
Enjoy this unedited excerpt of HER VIKING WARRIOR, the next book in author Gina Conkle’s FORGOTTEN SONS series.
Darkness was coming, the chill covering Bjorn’s bones. He was the only one to feel it. Farmers and fighters jostled shoulder to shoulder in Jarl Will Longsword’s hall. Mothers hugged their babes. Children darted through the crowds, giggling at their games. Everyone feasted around tall ash wood posts carved with images of Norse gods.
Mabon season burned in Rouen, the pagan harvest—a time to give thanks, a time to end unfinished business, a time Bjorn cursed his birth.
He doused discomfort with mead. Spiced honey flooded his mouth. The pain would pass. He was with the Forgotten Sons, his brothers in arms, the same as he was every Mabon feast since his father left him on Birka’s shores eighteen harvests ago. He was a boy of twelve then with nothing but the clothes on his back and a heavy sword in hand.
But this season was different.
The Sons hungered for land. Only one of them would get the next holding in Longsword’s kingdom.
Who would it be?
Thorvald picked up a hunk of meat with both hands. “It should be Bjorn.”
“Why?” Gunnar’s arms spread wide. “Just because he is second in command?”
Bjorn glared at him. The whelp.
Soapstone lamps shined on the youth’s flaxen hair. Born
with a face to make women swoon, he was happiest with bow and arrow. And with the Sons. Years the Forgotten Sons rode, fought, and traveled to distant lands. Bjorn would forgive the implied insult.
This staying in one place made them all...uneasy.
“The gods do not go by rank.” Thorvald jabbed a pork bone at Gunnar. “Longsword might, not the gods.”
“The gods reward the fiercest, most cunning warriors.” This from Thorfinn, the gentler twin to smash-faced Thorvald.
“That would be all of the Sons,” Bjorn said, waving over a thrall. “Now, can we be done with this talk?”
“No.” Gunnar scooped buttered root vegetables from a platter onto his plate. “Because if what you say is true, why does Rurik sit at the jarl’s table, and we do not?”
The warrior made a fair point. None could answer it. Their eyes shifted to the jarl’s end. His table faced the hall on a wooden platform, two steps higher than the earthen floor. At the table, Rurik’s head dipped to hear his bride’s whispers, a wicked smile curving his mouth. Rurik was their leader, yet when the Sons gave their var, their oath to Longsword, he profited the most. A beautiful woman. Wealth. A holding big enough it took two days to ride from end to end. Years they’d shared their plunder equally. Not anymore.
Did the gods see Rurik as the most deserving? As a boy, he’d led the troublemakers in Birka. Took blows for them when shiftless warriors attacked. Taught each man sitting with Bjorn how to fight.
Vikings lauded Rurik’s greatness, the hard-scrabble warrior who rose from nothing. What was his secret? Bjorn swallowed the last of his mead. He couldn’t muster even a drop of envy. Rurik had earned his place. Bjorn would someday find his.
The thrall, Gyda, approached and took Bjorn’s cup. “You are thirsty tonight.”
Gunnar leaned in, his jaw set. “Perhaps you can settle a dispute for us.”
“I will do my best.” Petite of frame, her smile was sweet as she poured Bjorn’s mead.
“Do the gods honor a man’s rank?”
Thorvald passed his cup, his voice rumbling. “Or do they honor the fiercest, most cunning warriors?”
Head bent, brown wisps brushed her rosy cheeks. She’d labored since sunrise to make the feast a success, and she would labor long past midnight. Quiet. Without complaint.
“Depends on the reward.” Gyda passed Thorvald his cup. “You men know as well as I do the gods demand a cost equal to their reward.”
The hall’s doors blew open. A gust kicked skirt hems across the room as two visitors swept in. An older man and a woman. A jarl and his wife or wealthy merchants by her white, fur trimmed cloak and gold shining from her ears.
“We’re arguing about the usual rewards,” Erik said gruffly. “Fame. Wealth. Land.”
Gyda filled his cup next. “You must think bigger than that.”
The men laughed. Thorvald wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sounds big enough for me.”
“Then that is all you will have. In small measure.” She tipped her chin at two ash wood pillars. “Look at those carvings. What do they tell you?”
From their seats, each warrior shifted, staring at columns of such size no man could wrap his arms fully around them. Four of the hall’s nine posts were carved with the gods, the work of a traveling artisan.
Thorfinn pinched his silver beard bands. “I see Odin who gave an eye for wisdom, and Tyr, his hand to uphold justice and rule of law.”
“They sought greater rewards first. Fame and wealth followed.” Shifting the pitcher to her hip, Gyda scanned their faces. “Is it not obvious? You must first ask what is your purpose and then you must seek it. No matter the sacrifice.”
The men broke into conversation at once. Words overlapped. Gentle Gyda was wise beyond her years. Pretty too. An easy companion. The thrall laughed with them while Bjorn stared in silence at Tyr fighting the wolf, Fenrir, their battle curving around oiled wood.
Lose a hand for justice? He was a Viking, yet he couldn’t see it happening.
A blur of white crossed his vision. The newcomer stood by the post. With an eye to the jarls table, she lowered her hood.
Bjorn sat taller. The hall’s roar faded.
The woman could steal a man’s breath. She’d stolen his for a split-second. A profile to make a man look twice. Ash-blonde hair spun in loose waves around her shoulders. Skin glowed, fine as polished ivory. But the woman was more than a fair face. Calm flowed from her. She was light in darkness. Peaceful.
And a high-born woman beyond his reach. A married one at that by the man whispering in her ear. But her mouth was a somber line when he spoke to her.
Bjorn tugged at wool rubbing his neck. His new tunic scratched skin used to the Forgotten Sons’ leather vest. He was naked without it.
His hunger gone, he pushed away from the table. Getting drunk would do no good. His father’s cold desertion was a fresh wound at Mabon. After so many harvests, the sore would fester for a day. Then disappear.
Seeking the shadows, Bjorn’s shoulder bumped a freshly painted shield. A hundred lined the wall. One was his. Three yellow wolves chased each other, fangs bared, on a field of blue around the iron shield boss. The sign of Will Longsword.
“The colors take some getting used to.” Rurik’s voice came from behind.
Bjorn pivoted. Rurik approached, his hair combed back, showing the chunk missing from his left ear. Red smudged the spot, evidence of Safira’s kiss. A wife in their midst. He would have to get used to that too.
“We’re expected to wear these tunics at feasts,” Rurik went on. “The rest of the time, we dress as we please.”
Thralls walked past, burdened with platters of root vegetables and bread. The woman in white stood in front of Tyr, beckoning a housekarl. Back to the wall, Bjorn matched Rurik’s wide-legged stance. It was better to see the whole room this way. Harder to be stabbed in the back.
“What else does Longsword expect of us?”
“He wants a special fighting force. And when we’re not busy fighting, he wants to send untried warriors to my holding...expects us to train them.”
“With all that fighting and training, when will you have time to put a babe in your new wife’s belly?”
Rurik’s smile was a cocky slash of white. “My seed has already taken root.”
“You...a father?”
“You are the first I’ve told.”
Bjorn clapped his friend’s shoulder. “Land, a wife, and a child. Pride will make your head swell.” He met Rurik’s smile with a big one of his own. “Now there will be no living with you.”
“If you’re ready, I can talk to Longsword about Lady Brynhild of Fecamp. She is wealthy and fair to look upon.”
“She wants a lap dog, not a husband.” What did he know of being a husband?
Rurik hooked a thumb in his belt, nodding reluctant agreement. “She does.”
Friendship and years of understanding knit them together. It was evident in their leadership of the Sons. Staying put and serving a jarl for life was challenge enough. Let Rurik wade through marriage waters first. He would wait.
“I’m holding out for a beautiful woman to crawl into my bed with a proposition,” Bjorn said, his mood lifting.
“You think finding the right woman is that easy?”
“It worked for you.” Bjorn looked to the jarl’s table where raven-haired Safira discussed cloth trade with the jarl.
“It did.” Eyes shining, Rurik watched his wife and began to explain her plans.
Bjorn listened until a faint itch pricked his nape. He checked the hall. Eyes the shade of the Aegean Sea struck him. The woman in white faced Bjorn. She was cool. Confident. A reviving drink to a parched traveler. A smooth jaw spoke of her youth. Angled cheeks spoke of experience. She was equal to his age.
Her face...
His balance was off. A me
mory teased him. He’d seen her before. Where?
Beringed fingers untied her cloak, the light twinkling on gemstones. Wool slipped off her shoulders. With thralls tending the fire pits, her body was hidden but her face. Enticing lips curved gently, then wider, softening her eyes as if she spied a long-lost friend. Something about her reminded him of falling into clear water—deep, refreshing, healing.
A matron chased a toddler in the hall, blocking his view. A thrall plucked up the child and passed the squirming bundle to his scolding mother. Bjorn craned his neck. The mother thanked the thrall and ambled on. Tyr’s snarling battle with Fenrir was in view.
The woman was gone.
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying,” Rurik chuckled.
“That blonde woman.”
Rurik scanned the hall. “You’ll have to do better than that. We’re at a Viking feast.” He gave Bjorn a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Come. Let’s sit with the men.”
Laughter echoed from the rafters. A blaze crackled from two fire pits dug into the ground, sending up a curtain of smoke. Perhaps he imagined her. Shaking off of his stupor, Bjorn took a seat with his back to the hall. He didn’t have time for mysterious blonde women.
Thorvald buttered a hunk of bread. “I would be like Baldur.”
Erik snorted. “Which part? His handsome face?”
“His warlike side,” Thorvald shot back.
“That’s good.” Gunnar popped a berry in his mouth and chewed the morsel. “Because no one would believe you’re so cheerful that light shines off you.”
Rurik scooped berries from a bowl. “What are you talking about?”
“We were discussing who will get land next.” Thorfinn set both elbows on the table.
“By talking about the gods?”
“By talking about who would be worthy.” Erik’s dark eyes narrowed on Rurik. “Like you.”
Thorvald’s jaws slowed on the bread he chewed. Gunnar and Erik eyed Rurik as he ate the handful of berries. Measuring him. Wary. Even gentle Thorfinn’s mouth firmed to an unfriendly line. The Sons had sworn to always stick together. Had lived by three simple laws since rough days in Birka. The first law: The Sons served each other. The second law: A life saved deserved an equal reward. The third law: No women.