17. 17Chasing the Tribute Across the Sound
The sea swallowed the courier’s sail, but not his wake.
Inga saw the pale streak of it through the rain, a broken path between black waves.
Rurik stood at the steering oar, dark-brown hair plastered to his brow, the ledger bound beneath his cloak.
His left hand clamped the oar’s shaft; the missing tip of his index finger gave his grip an uneven, familiar shape.
“Turn us east,” she called. “He is running for the mainland.”
Rurik glanced over his shoulder. Rain streamed from his beard. “The sound is narrowing. If I turn too sharply, the sea will roll us.”
“If we hold this course, he reaches shore.”
“That is not a command a wave will obey.”
His answer struck harder than the wind. Inga had spent too long being carried - by Hakon’s men from the fortress, by ropes, by fear, by every hand that claimed to know what was best for her. She seized the wet gunwale as the longship climbed a swell.
“Then tell me what the wave will obey.”
For one breath, only the oars answered, rising and falling in rough unison. Rurik’s green eyes fixed on her, measuring more than her words.
“The wind is driving him toward the skerries,” he said. “The courier knows the water. He means to cut behind them and find the mainland current. We will take the outer passage.”
“Through that?”
A jagged line of stone showed and vanished beneath the rain.
“Through that,” he said. “Can you stand?”
“I can do more than stand.”
“Then come here.”
She crossed the pitching deck on hands and feet, her torn bridal veil wound around her wrist beneath the iron ring he had given her. The ring scraped against the wet wood as she moved. When another wave struck, her shoulder slammed into the mast.
Rurik caught her by the waist.
His arm locked around her, hard and immediate. For an instant, she felt only the heat of him through their soaked wool, the strength that had carried her from danger more than once. Then he released her.
“Stay low,” he ordered.
“I am not cargo.”
“No. Cargo does not argue.”
“Cargo also does not steer.”
His mouth tightened. “You have not yet seen what steering costs.”
“I have seen what obedience costs.”
The words landed between them. His gaze shifted, and she knew he remembered the shoreline: her being dragged toward Hakon’s boat, her voice lost beneath the rain, his vow too far behind her to reach.
Rurik thrust the steering oar toward her.
“Take it.”
She stared at him. “You trust me with your ship?”
“I trust you to hold a piece of wood when I tell you.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because I need both hands on the rigging.”
He moved before she could answer, bracing himself against the mast as the sail cracked overhead. The longship lurched. Inga seized the oar with both hands.
The force nearly tore her from her feet.
“Lower your body!” Rurik shouted.
She bent her knees, pressing her hip against the steering bench. The oar bucked like a living thing. Water slapped her face, cold enough to steal her breath. She held on, teeth clenched, watching the skerries rise ahead.
“Left!” Rurik called.
She pulled.
The ship swung too slowly. A wave broke over the bow, and one of the oarsmen cried out as the forward oar snapped against unseen rock.
“Again!” Rurik shouted.
Inga dragged the steering oar toward her. Her palms burned. The longship yawed, its hull scraping stone with a groan that shuddered through her bones.
Rurik reached her, shoulder striking hers as he leaned into the oar. His hand closed over hers - not taking control, but adding his strength.
“Together,” he said.
She felt the rhythm of him through their joined grip. Pull. Hold. Ease. The ship slid past the rock with scarcely a hand’s breadth between wood and stone.
Behind them, the rain opened for a heartbeat.
The courier’s skiff appeared in the gap, riding low beneath a patched sail.
“There,” Inga cried.
Rurik looked back. “He has seen us.”
The skiff veered toward the narrowest channel.
“He will wreck himself,” she said.
“He thinks we will not follow.”
“Then prove him wrong.”
His eyes flashed. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am enjoying choosing.”
That silenced him.
The skiff vanished behind a wall of gray water. Rurik gave orders, and the crew hauled at the sail. The ship leaned so sharply that Inga slid against him. His arm came around her again, holding her upright while the deck tilted beneath them.
“Rurik - ”
“I have you.”
She looked up at him. Rain ran from his lashes. His face was fierce with concentration, but his hand at her waist trembled once before tightening.
“I know,” she said. “That is what frightens me.”
His expression changed, though the storm gave him no time to answer. He pushed her back toward the steering bench.
“Keep her nose east. Do not chase the sail. Chase the water beneath it.”
She understood then. The courier had the faster skiff, but the channel bent around a submerged reef. The longship’s deeper hull could not follow his exact path. It had to cut across the current.
She watched the waves rather than the sail. Each crest broke white over a hidden ridge. Between them, the water darkened and pulled.
“There,” she said. “The current runs south.”
Rurik turned sharply. “Are you certain?”
“No. But the foam is traveling against the wind.”
He studied the water, then gave a short command. The oars changed cadence. The ship angled across the sound.
For a while, the courier disappeared entirely.
Inga’s arms shook from the steering oar. Her shoulder throbbed where she had struck the mast. Fear rose with every unseen rock, but she kept her eyes on the water.
“You can hand it back,” Rurik said beside her.
“No.”
“You are hurt.”
“I am useful.”
“That was not what I said.”
She glanced at him. “It is what you meant.”
His jaw hardened. “You think I would put you aside the moment the danger ends?”
“I think you put me where you can see me, then call it safety.”
The wind tore at his cloak. “I put you where you can survive.”
“And if surviving means trusting you blindly?”
“It does not.”
“Then let me see the danger.”
He looked toward the gray horizon. “The danger is that if we fail, Hakon’s steward reaches the mainland with the tribute and claims it was never stolen. The ledger proves the entries were altered. The gold and silver prove where the money went. Without both,
the law will bend toward the lord who owns the seal.”
“And my name?”
His gaze returned to her.
“The patronage seal,” she said. “The one that marked my betrothal papers. If Hakon’s patron claims authority over my father’s house, they will say I was taken from a lawful household. They will call this marriage theft, not protection.”
Rurik’s fingers tightened on the oar. “They will say many things.”
“They may say them before men who believe them.”
“Then we give those men no room to believe.”
The skiff emerged ahead, caught in the darker current. Its sail had torn along one edge. A chest lay lashed beneath the mast.
“There,” Rurik said. “Now.”
The longship surged.
The courier saw them and dropped the sail. He reached for an oar, trying to turn the skiff toward a low shelf of rock. Rurik shouted for the crew to ship their oars on the starboard side. The longship swung broadside, blocking the escape.
Inga’s hands slipped on the steering oar.
Rurik seized it with her. “Hold.”
“I am holding.”
“Not the ship. Yourself.”
He wedged his knee against hers, anchoring her as the hull struck the skiff. Wood cracked. The courier fell hard against the gunwale.
Two of Rurik’s men leapt across. The courier snatched a knife, but the wave threw him off balance. One of the men knocked the blade into the sea and dragged him by the collar onto the longship.
The chest broke loose.
It slid across the skiff’s deck toward the gap between vessels.
Inga saw the iron clasp flash beneath the lid.
“The tribute!”
She released the steering oar and lunged.
Rurik caught the back of her cloak. The cloth tightened against her throat.
“Do not - ”
She twisted free. “If it goes under, we lose everything!”
The chest struck the longship’s side. Inga dropped to her knees, reaching through the gap. Black water rushed below her fingers.
Rurik swore and caught her belt.
“Take my hand,” he said.
“I need the chest.”
“Take my hand first.”
The command held no anger. Only fear.
She looked back. His left hand was extended, the missing fingertip stark against the rain-dark wood. She clasped it.
“Now,” he said.
With his grip bracing her, she leaned farther. Her fingers closed around the chest’s iron handle. The current dragged at it, and pain shot through her shoulder.
“Pull!” Rurik roared.
She pulled. He hauled her backward at the same time. The chest tore free of the water and slammed against her hip. Together they rolled onto the longship’s deck.
For a moment, she lay against him, breathless, the chest wedged between their bodies.
His face was inches from hers.
“You disobeyed me,” he said.
“You were slow.”
His laugh came out rough, almost disbelieving. “You nearly drowned.”
“But I did not.”
“No.” His hand remained at her waist. “You did not.”
The courier was bound near the mast. The recovered chest was dragged beneath the sail. Rurik rose, but Inga caught his wrist.
“Open it.”
His eyes searched hers. “Here?”
“Here. Before the sea takes another secret.”
He crouched beside the chest and cut the rope. Inside lay bundles of silver, small cloth bags of coin, and a wrapped gold armlet marked with the lord’s seal. The tribute had been recovered.
A cheer broke from the crew, quickly swallowed by thunder.
Inga touched the iron ring on her finger. Relief came first, then the colder knowledge beneath it. The money proved the theft. The ledger proved the alteration. But the seal on the armlet and the seal used against her were the same authority.
Rurik saw the change in her face.
“What is it?”
She lifted the gold armlet. “This seal belongs to Hakon’s patron. If he claims the tribute was lawfully entrusted to him, he can still claim I was lawfully promised to his ally.”
Rurik’s expression went still.
“The ledger can expose the theft,” she said. “The tribute can expose the route. But my legal claim remains trapped beneath that seal.”
He took the armlet from her, his knuckles brushing hers.
“Then we will break the claim.”
“By force?”
“By truth, if truth will stand. By force if a man puts his hand on you again.”
She looked toward the bound courier, then back at Rurik. “And if the law says I belong to them?”
His green eyes held hers through the rain.
“Then the law will have to hear you speak.”
The storm began to ease, though the sound still heaved around them. Rurik rose and offered his hand.
This time, Inga took it without being ordered.
He pulled her to her feet, and she stood beside him as the longship turned toward the island fortress. The tribute was secured. The courier was captured. The ledger lay beneath Rurik’s cloak, safe against his chest.
Yet the seal gleamed between them like a threat that had learned to wait.
Inga tightened her fingers around Rurik’s hand.
“Let them come,” she said.
Rurik looked at her, not as cargo, not as a woman to be hidden, but as the one who had held his ship against the rocks.
“Let them,” he answered.
And together they faced the darkening shore.