Page 3 of To Tame a Viking Warlord

Murdina smiled. "You always did see the whole board, Thorfinn Sigurdsson."

"I see what a person does, not what they say. Macbeth speaks well of your Order, and so do I. I am a man of practical arrangement, Abbess. Ye ken this."

"I do."

"Then I shall send my best man south. He will make contact with your merchant and bring your parcel north safely. But when I have need of the abbey's assistance, at a time of my choosing, ye will not refuse me."

Murdina was quiet a long moment. Then she inclined her head. "Agreed."

"Then I'll have my men on the water come the thaw."

She reached into her boist and drew out a small square of vellum, folded twice, and smoothed it open on the table. The sketch showed a pendant, a disc no larger than a man's palm, carved with a design like outstretched arms beneath a crescent moon, the whole of it ringed by a plain border.

"This is what your man will escort north," she said. "The merchant will provide proof of my seal, and my letters will tell your man all he needs. But he must learn the tongue before he sails, and the customs with it. Latin will carry him through the Christian ports, but south of them it is worth little. From Lisbon to Salé the harbours are held by Muslim lords, and your man will be speaking Arabic long before he reaches Fez. I have arranged a tutor, a scholar named Brother Aiden, well traveled and adept in the tongues and customs of the region. He will teach your man Arabic, and what courtesies one winter allows."

Thorfinn leaned forward to study the sketch. Then he went still.

"I have seen this carving before," he said slowly. "Or its likeness. Not far from here. In Maeshowe. Carved into the stone, among the runes."

Murdina sat up. "This design has no cause being anywhere near these isles."

"And yet."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

"Then it is even more important your man is on the water before the thaw closes on us," she said.

She laid the remaining parchments and a cube of sealed clay on the table. "The merchant's family seal. Proof that I am the sender. Whoever you send presents this with my letter."

The Abbess rose, collected her cloak, and moved to the door. She paused with her hand on the frame.

"Your man will ken what he is looking for when he finds it," she said. "Of that I am certain."

She left.

Thorfinn sat alone. After a long moment he rose, crossed to the shelf, and picked up the ancient stone he had found buried beneath the fort when the wall collapsed. Dark. Carved. Warm, as it had always been. A seer had once told him it was a ward against evil. He had never quite believed it, but he kept it there regardless.

He held it a while longer. Then he set it back on the shelf, and sent for the only man he could trust with the task.

He sent for Torstein Hagansson.

***

Chapter 2

MacGregor Keep, Glenorchy, Scotland

Torstein Hagansson was restless.

He had been restless since the moment he arrived in Glenorchy and no amount of mead or good company had managed to shake it. He and his men, Njal the giant, Mathias and Leif had come to deliver gifts to the MacGregor clan and specifically Zala Fletcher due to their familial ties.

He sat in the Great Hall of MacGregor Keep beside men he respected well, such as Beiste MacGregor and Dalziel Robertson, yet still his fur-lined boot tapped beneath the table, the only outlet he allowed the urge to stand and walk until the feeling passed. He longed to be outdoors on the open sea and moving.

The restlessness had become a permanent resident in his chest, like a thirst he could not quench. A longing for something more he could not quite name. And all around him, drawn to his side of the table, were the women. They passed with jugs of mead and lingered a moment longer than duty required, their glances warm and inviting.

Torstein was courteous to all yet remained distant. He was a natural charmer, with a grin here and a jest there, but most of it was performative. Deep down, he had no interest in what they had to offer. He was not a vain creature, but he was also not oblivious to the fact he had been blessed with fine looks. Attracting women had never been a hardship. That did not mean he always welcomed the attention.

He knew what they saw. A powerful man with land and a respected name, broad shoulders, golden-haired, skilled in battle and commanding a healthy fortune in land and coin. He did not fault them for wanting it. But this endless procession of women who fell at his feet before he'd so much as spoken. There was no sport in it. No challenge, and a man valued what he had to fight for, yet in thirty summers, he had never come across a woman who made him want to fight for her. Yet, he longed for it. So much so, it had been so long since he'd shared his bed with anyone because he craved a woman he had yet to meet and wondered if she even existed at all. It was a curse dressed as a blessing, being appealing to the eye yet stirred by none. Torstein sighed. What he needed was an outlet.