Olaf stood and moved to the side, and then Vestar knelt before the Jarl’s wife. She repeated the little ceremony, and when she brushed her lips across the young lad’s cheeks, his whole face turned bright red.
Then it was Tarr’s turn. As he crossed the dais and knelt in front of Laurel, he felt the weight of the crowd’s eyes. As Laurel placed the necklace over his bowed head, he heard giggles from several women, and a few comments on his large frame. He repressed a smile as he stood from the dais’s wooden planks and made his way off to the other side.
Just as he stepped down from the dais, his eye caught on a small group comprised of two men and a woman standing at its base. Like everyone else in the hall, the three watched the ceremony with keen interest. But neither of the two men were in line to make their own entrance to the games official.
What man who was able-bodied and youthful enough to compete in the games wouldn’t join? Men who had no need of proving themselves, Tarr thought as realization dawned. They were already going on the voyage to the west. Perhaps one of them was even the captain.
With a determined stride, Tarr stepped into the little cluster of three.
“I am looking for Alaric Hamarsson. Perhaps you know him,” he said boldly. He’d picked up the captain’s name at the table earlier this evening as the men had discussed their desire to sail west.
One of the men arched a golden eyebrow at him. “What is your business with the man?” he asked evenly, though his green eyes danced with merriment.
“I hear he is to lead the voyage to the west this summer. I wish to introduce myself, since I plan on being by his side.” The words were brasher than Tarr truly felt, but he’d wanted to make an impression, and this was his opportunity.
The blond man exchanged a look with the other woman and man, both brows now lifted in amusement. Tarr glanced at the woman and was struck by a similarity to the blond man. Though her hair was icy whereas his was golden, and her eyes were a gray so pale as to be almost colorless while the man’s were vibrant green, there was something about each that echoed the other. Perhaps it was the quirking lips, the sardonic merriment around the eyes, or the self-assured stance they both bore.
The third man was nothing like the other two, with dark brown hair hanging around his shoulders and bright, sharp blue eyes. The only similarity was that all three carried themselves like warriors.
“Tell him, brother,” the woman said to the blond man.
“I am Alaric Hamarsson,” the blond man said, turning back to Tarr. “This is my twin sister, Madrena.”
“He means to say, I am his second in command,” the woman named Madrena said dryly.
“And I am Rúnin, the second in command’s mate,” the dark-headed man said lowly, though his eyes were no longer so sharp. Was this the hard warrior’s idea of a jest?
“And who is the man who claims even before the games have begun that he will earn a place at my side?” Alaric questioned, his gaze shifting to assess Tarr.
“Tarr Olvirsson.”
“Are you a warrior then?” Madrena asked, giving Tarr the same scrutinizing stare.
Tarr shook his head.
“A blacksmith perhaps, or a shipbuilder?” Alaric clapped a hand on Tarr’s shoulder as if to measure the muscles there.
“Nei, just a simple farmer,” Tarr said to the apparent merriment of the three.
“Very well, Tarr Olvirsson, simple farmer,” Alaric said, pounding Tarr on the back once more. “I’ll look forward to seeing what you can do in the games.”
The three turned inward again and Tarr stepped aside, his chest buoyed by the fact that he’d introduced himself to the voyage’s captain and would draw the attention he sought.
A ruffle of movement behind him drew Tarr back to the ceremony. Just as the last man was rising before Laurel, an older woman pushed her way through the crowd of villagers watching the competitors. The woman, whose graying hair was pulled back in tight braids from her forehead, marched right to the dais. A cloaked figure trailed behind her and Tarr realized the older woman grasped the figure by the arm.
Jarl Eirik, who had been standing to the side of his wife, bent toward the woman as she reached the dais. The Jarl’s golden brows furrowed slightly as the woman whispered into his ear, gesturing adamantly with one hand while still clasping the cloaked figure with the other.
At last the Jarl straightened, turning his attention to the crowd, who immediately hushed in curiosity.
“It seems that the games are to be made more…interesting than usual this year,” Jarl Eirik began. “In the time of our ancestors, the games were waged for more than bragging rights. Often a village maiden was the prize for the victor, to form a bond through marriage between the maiden’s family and the man strong enough to win the games.”
Tarr instantly tensed, a sense of unease stealing over him.
“As you all know, I do not favor the tradition of thralldom in my village,” Eirik said, his voice dropping. “And maiden prizes are little better.” The Jarl’s eyes fell on the cloaked figure in the older woman’s grasp. “Does the maiden come to this willingly?”
Tarr’s gaze jerked to the figure. Underneath the wool hood, he saw the barest trace of a delicate profile, but no more. The crowd in the longhouse blocked most of his view, but a few bodies shifted and he caught a glimpse of the older woman’s hand tightening on the maiden’s wrist.
The figure gave a swift nod and the older woman pulled her up onto the dais.
“Very well,” Jarl Eirik said levelly, though his brows drew down slightly. “This maiden offers herself freely in marriage to the victor of these games.”
A stone sank in Tarr’s stomach. A mere moment before, he’d been more determined than ever to win the games and prove his worth to Alaric and the others. But if winning meant being saddled with a new bride, how could he possibly sail west come summer?
The last thing he wanted to be focused on now was marriage and all it entailed—settling down, building a homestead together, and looking after a new wife. Tarr’s heart tugged west. It had been his dream for so long to go voyaging. Winning the games would secure him a place on Alaric’s longship, but now it would also anchor him to Dalgaard with a bride.
Even as dread and uncertainty welled within Tarr’s chest, the older woman was guiding the cloaked maiden to the front of the dais. Her sharp voice, only slightly reedy with age, rose over the heads of those gathered.
“May I present my niece, a fine maiden bride for the victor of the games,” she said, pulling back the cloak’s hood from the maiden’s head. “Eyva Knutsdottir.”
The name collided with Tarr at the very moment the cloak fell away, revealing the dark-headed beauty beneath.
Tarr felt his jaw slacken as he gazed up at Eyva, the girl from the farmstead last night. In the firelight within the longhouse, her hair glowed chestnut. He could now see, even from several paces back from the dais, that her wide eyes were the blue-green of a mountain pond.
Surprised and pleased murmurs at Eyva’s unconventional beauty filled the longhouse at this turn of events. Just as Jarl Eirik had said, the crowd enjoyed this new twist to the games. But Tarr could barely comprehend the whispers around him, so frozen in shock was he.
A hiss sounded from behind him and Eyva’s eyes jerked in his direction. They skidded over him for the briefest of moments, widening in horror, before landing on someone beyond his shoulder.
Madrena plowed past him, uncaring of who she bumped into as she made her way toward the dais. She grabbed Eyva’s wrist and pulled her from the dais despite the older woman’s protests. As Madrena dragged Eyva toward the longhouse’s door, Eyva darted another glance at Tarr before being swallowed from his sight.
Chapter Five
“Madrena, what are you doing?” Eyva called desperately as she was dragged into the cold night air.
Once they were clear of the longhouse and the large wooden doors had closed behind them, Madrena, the fierce shieldmaiden and Eyva’s teache
r, rounded on her.
“What am I doing? What are you doing?” Madrena snapped.
Eyva swallowed her shame and forced the words out. “My parents sent me to my Aunt Helga’s hut this morning. They decided that I should be married off to the games’ victor and bring my new husband to the farmstead to help them.”
Madrena stared at her with those sharp gray eyes for a long moment. “But what of your training? I thought you wished to become a shieldmaiden.”
“I should have told you,” Eyva went on, her heart aching. “They forbade me to train with you long ago. They think I should follow in my mother’s footsteps—become a farmer’s wife and work their land for them, nothing more.”
“And you will simply…do as they say?”
Eyva’s throat grew tight as she met her mentor’s angry eyes. How she wished she could meet Madrena’s fiery indignation with her own. But nei, that liberty had been taken from her.
“I do not have the freedom you do, Madrena. If your parents had still been alive when you began training to be a shieldmaiden and they opposed you, they would have every law of the Northlands on their side.”
Madrena crossed her arms in frustration. “Then I’ll talk to Eirik. Surely he can order your parents to allow you to continue with your training.”
Eyva shook her head slowly. She had fantasized about just such a thing on her trek from the farmstead this morning. She knew Madrena and Jarl Eirik were close, that Madrena even held sway as Eirik’s friend. But as she’d walked through the patchy snow toward Dalgaard, reality had sunk in.
“Jarl Eirik cannot put himself above the law, else he is no better than a tyrant. He cannot break the power my parents have over me just because you want him to.”
Madrena pressed her lips together. “He may not be able to force them to let you continue training with me, but if he knew you didn’t offer yourself as a bride prize willingly—”
“—And if I had done so freely?” Eyva cut in. She forced down her resistance to such an idea even as the words of denial rose in her throat. She had to accept her fate and let go of her dreams. For if she held out even the tiniest sliver of hope that she could become a shieldmaiden and escape her parents’ plans for her, it would be all the more painful when she was proven wrong and put back in her place.
Madrena’s eyes narrowed on her. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that you will willingly accept this fate.”
Eyva raised her hands from the folds of her cloak. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tilted her palms to catch the moonlight.
Madrena inhaled and then hissed out a breath at the sight of the red marks on Eyva’s hands. The skin was still somewhat raised and the redness slashed across her palms was the exact width of the leather belt.
“My training days are over,” Eyva said, her voice thick. “I must accept my fate.”
“Eyva!”
Her head snapped from Madrena to the longhouse door, where light and noise streamed out around a tall, broad figure.
Tarr.
When her eyes had skittered over him, her heart had leapt to her throat. She knew he would be here, but seeing him again brought back the flood of heat she’d felt when they’d met last night.
Madrena stepped to Eyva’s side to face Tarr. “Do you know this man, Eyva?”
“Ja, ’tis all right, Madrena,” Eyva said softly, but internally her stomach fluttered.
“I’m not giving up on you,” Madrena whispered as she turned toward the longhouse. “I hope you won’t either.” With that, she slipped around Tarr and closed the door behind her.
The night suddenly felt darker as Tarr strode to her. He stopped in front of her and the air grew still between them.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said simply, his voice a low caress.
Embarrassment once again heated her cheeks. “I…I don’t know. I knew you would be here, but I didn’t expect the whole thing to be so…public.”
“And you wish to be married?”
“That is my parents’ wish, ja.”
His brows drew together as he stared down at her.
“Please remember, I am only a daughter,” she said quietly.
But being soft and obedient didn’t come naturally to her. Eyva straightened, suddenly longing to free herself of her grimness. She didn’t want Tarr’s pity. And if he kept questioning her, she would crack under his midnight gaze.
“Who knows, perhaps you will be the lucky man,” she said flippantly, trying to flee from her mounting discomfort.
The second the words crossed her lips, she regretted them. She’d meant only to lighten the mood, to turn away from her own gloom, but the implication felt far too intimate, especially standing alone with this broad, strong man under the light of a half moon. The cool air did little to douse the heat in her face.
Tarr raked a hand through his light brown hair even though it was bound at the nape of his neck.
“I didn’t tell you the whole truth of why I was coming here last night, either,” he said.
His words replaced embarrassment with uncertainty in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not just here for the games. I’d hoped to earn a spot for myself on the voyage to the west this summer.”
Realization dawned on Eyva. She’d heard of Jarl Eirik’s bold plan to send at least one longship to the mysterious lands to the west, but not simply to raid, as he had done a year and a half ago—to settle. She’d even harbored a secret fantasy of being able to go along. After all, Madrena was to be the voyage’s second in command. If she trained hard from now until the summer, perhaps Madrena would see fit to bring her along.
“And a bride prize wouldn’t be compatible with going a-viking,” Tarr went on hesitantly.
A deeper understanding sank into Eyva’s chest as she gazed up into Tarr’s night-blue eyes. Even though she’d said it in jest, she realized a small part of her had hoped that if she were forced to wed a stranger, ’twould be better if it were the man before her. Though she hardly knew him, he’d already shown kindness and protectiveness toward her, and she innately trusted him.
But that was a silly girl’s fantasy, just as it was to think that she could become a shieldmaiden and sail to the western lands like some kind of heroine from the sagas.
“I see,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, but it sounded strained in her ears.
“I wish…” Tarr raised a hand slowly to her cheek, just as he had last night. This time, he tucked a dark lock of hair behind her ear. “I wish we had met under different circumstances.”
Eyva held her breath as his fingers lingered on her hair. “Why?” It was a bold question, but being so close to Tarr’s large, strong form made her feel heady and free, if only for the moment.
“Because I wish we could get to know each other,” he replied, his voice low and husky. “I would court you properly. I’d bring you a coltsfoot bloom every day so that you could make a garland to wear in your hair.” His fingers threaded more fully in her tresses and she had to close her eyes for a moment as sensation flooded her.
He drew his hand back suddenly as if he had been burned. A curse whispered from his lips. “I shouldn’t touch you. You are to be someone else’s.”
His words cut like a knife through the sensuous fog that had settled around them.
“Ja. Someone else’s.” Those words almost choked her, but now that she knew he didn’t want to be saddled with a bride, they were too true. “My aunt will be looking for me,” she said quickly, trying to straighten her spine and recover some of her composure.
He nodded. As she slipped by him and headed toward the longhouse’s door, she felt his dark eyes on her.
Suddenly he was by her side once more to pull open the heavy wooden door, sparing her the pain in her hands.
The door closed behind her, at last blocking the feel of his silent stare on her back.
Chapter Six
Tarr rolled his head from side to side, trying to
ease the stiffness there.
The last sennight had passed in a blur—a brutal, aching blur.
The two days following the ceremony where Jarl Eirik had presented his son had brought the swimming competitions. Tarr thought himself a strong swimmer, but the men were not only competing against each other, but also the frigid fjord, which seemed bent on drowning them all.
The first day was filled with simple swimming races. Tarr managed to come in third behind Geirr and another man from Dalgaard.
It wasn’t until after Tarr had dragged himself from the icy fjord, panting and dripping, that he noticed a dark head among the spectators filling Dalgaard’s docks and crowding the shoreline.
Eyva had been watching him.
Those blue-green eyes cut through the cold, sending heat coursing through him. He’d had to linger in the shallows for a moment under her stare, for he only wore thin linen trousers which would reveal the sudden flash of desire she kindled within him.
When their eyes met and mated across the crowd, Eyva’s cheeks had pinkened and she’d fled. But of course as the bride prize herself, all in the village knew her face and made way for her, commenting on her strange behavior as she left. This only drew more attention—and sent a surge of protectiveness through Tarr.
Eyva stirred something in him that he’d never felt before. His lust sprang to life at the mere thought of her, ja, but it was more than that. Her quiet strength drew him, yet she also seemed to be concealing some secret. She claimed to be offering herself in marriage freely, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the welts on her hands and the way she’d spoken coldly of her parents’ wishes to marry her off.
And why had she been talking with Madrena, the fierce shieldmaiden and Alaric’s second in command, the night of the festival’s opening ceremony?
The evening of the first swimming races, the notches marking his early success were carved into the piece of wood hanging around his neck. Tarr had searched the longhouse restlessly with his gaze, but Eyva was nowhere to be seen. Even though a stern voice in his head reminded him that he didn’t want to win her as his bride prize, for some reason he longed for her to see his accomplishments thus far.
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