So distracted by these thoughts was Tarr that on the second day he nigh drowned in the fjord. It didn’t help that he’d spotted Eyva once more watching silently from the crowd just before entering the water. A wintery breeze rippled her cloak, revealing her delicate figure underneath. Her chestnut hair hung loose around her shoulders, setting her apart from the sea of blond and light brown heads all around.
Tarr had forced his mind back on the task at hand. That day’s competition involved pairing the men off and pitting them against each other to see who was the strongest swimmer. Whoever was able to hold his opponent underwater longest before the opponent surrendered or lost consciousness was the victor. The winners of each round were paired until only one man was left.
Tarr was eliminated about halfway through the day, sputtering and seeing spots. As he dragged himself from the freezing fjord waters, he again caught sight of Eyva fleeing. Was she drawn to him as he was to her?
Nei, he shouldn’t let himself think that way, for he would never wed her, even if he won the games. If he somehow managed to win, he’d be forced to refuse the bride prize. He was meant to go a-viking, not settle down.
The next several days were filled with wrestling, stone tosses, sword fighting, and axe throwing. Tarr won the wrestling competition, for though he was large and strong, he was also light on his feet. He wasn’t quite able to best Olaf in the stone tosses, for the grizzled redhead was nigh a giant, but nonetheless Tarr came in second.
Tarr’s sword fighting was slightly weaker. Even Northland farmers had to learn how to wield weapons, for one never knew when the next attack would befall even the quietest farm. Tarr’s father had shown him the basics, but there was always so much to do around the farmstead that he’d had little practice. He bested his first few opponents, but lost to Geirr yet again.
Axe throwing, on the other hand, came naturally to a lad who’d been chopping wood every day of his life since he was strong enough to lift the axe. Tarr finished first in both the wielding speed and throwing accuracy competitions. The piece of wood hanging from his neck was now almost filled with markings.
“Thinking about a particular dark-haired girl, Tarr?”
Tarr felt an enormous hand collide with his back in a brutal, but friendly, pound. If Olaf’s voice hadn’t snapped his attention back to the present, then certainly the blow to his back that could fell a small tree would.
Tarr raised an eyebrow at the ruddy-haired giant but didn’t take his bait. Olaf was apparently determined to get a rise out of him, though.
“I myself prefer blondes—or redheads,” Olaf said, waggling his eyebrows at Geirr and Vestar, who stood in a little clump with Tarr as they waited for the seventh and final day of games to get underway. “Dark-headed women do little for me but, of course, I’d gladly take the festival’s bride prize as an exception.”
Geirr threw his dark blond head back and laughed, and Vestar colored slightly. Tarr didn’t miss the glances all three of his fellow competitors shot him, though. Clearly they had noticed Eyva watching him—and him watching her.
“As long as she’s comely, I don’t care what color her hair is,” Vestar said in an attempt at casual men’s talk.
This only made Geirr roar louder. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she sat directly upon your lap, lad!” he barked, then doubled over in mirth.
Tarr couldn’t help but smile as Vestar turned a deeper red, making the weak blond whiskers on his upper lip stand out even more. Although he was only a handful of years younger than Tarr, the lad must have led a more sheltered life.
At last Geirr caught his breath and straightened, leveling Tarr with a challenging look.
“Tarr here may not have the bollocks to own up to his interest in Eyva Knutsdottir, but I’m not so shy. I aim to win her for myself.”
Olaf raised his bushy red eyebrows and shot at glance at Tarr. “Is that so, lad? Let me see these.” Olaf lifted both Geirr and Tarr’s wooden necklaces to examine the series of carvings indicating how well they’d finished in each event thus far. “Hmm, very close. This rope pull could be the deciding factor—either that, or the skaldic competition tonight.”
Tarr felt a strange twist in his belly. This was the last of the physical games and tonight’s poetic sparring would serve as the closing of the festival. His mind tore between hope that he’d done enough in these games to earn himself a spot on Alaric’s voyage and unease at the prospect of rejecting the bride prize if he won. Or was his gut roiling at the thought of Eyva being pledged to another come tomorrow morning when the winner was announced?
He had no right to, but he felt the flare of protective rage at the thought of Geirr—or any man—touching her. Other than himself. Yet he didn’t want her, he reminded himself firmly.
Nei, he couldn’t lie. He wanted her—badly. But he couldn’t take her as his wife, not if it meant giving up his dream of voyaging to the west.
“Ah, speaking of my future bride,” Geirr said, his eyes darting past Tarr’s shoulder.
Tarr turned and felt his breath seize in his throat. Eyva was making her way hesitantly through the crowd, her eyes scanning the men preparing for the rope pull. Was she looking for him?
Their eyes collided and heat coiled deep in Tarr’s belly—and lower. Eyva had braided back the hair around her temples, but the rest fell in rich waves around her shoulders. It gleamed in the slanting winter sun, hints of gold and red shimmering in the chestnut brown. Those blue-green eyes swallowed him, a look of desire clashing with sadness in their depths.
“Look at those breasts,” Geirr said, though Tarr felt the man’s blue gaze slide to him. “They aren’t as large as some, but a man could feast on them. And I’d like to have those hips gripped firmly in my hands. Perhaps I will by morning.”
Without thinking, Tarr rounded on Geirr and raised a fist. Geirr darted out of the way and Olaf caught Tarr’s wrist, halting the blow that would have wiped the playful grin from Geirr’s face.
“At last, you show some life regarding the girl,” Geirr said, his blue eyes dancing mischievously.
Tarr narrowed his gaze on Geirr. Was the man simply toying with him, teasing him by playing on his obvious desire for Eyva and his protectiveness of her? He relaxed a hair’s breadth and Olaf released his wrist.
“Save it for the competition, lad,” Olaf said, though his mouth curved behind his enormous red beard.
Was Tarr such an easy target for jesting? Ja, he realized with a sinking sensation, for he could not hide his draw toward Eyva. What a mess he had gotten himself in to.
A whistle pierced the air and all the competitors were suddenly alert. They shuffled into the center of the little clearing tucked just behind the village. A piece of rope as long as Tarr was tall lay on the ground already with a red strip of linen tied to the center.
Just then, Alaric strode into the clearing, eyes assessing those gathered. Tarr had seen the golden-headed warrior at all the competitions over the last sennight, quietly watching. Now it appeared that Alaric would be the rope pull’s arbitrator himself.
“Two men at a time will face off,” Alaric said in a loud voice to the villagers who’d crowded into the clearing to spectate. “Whoever wins, advances. The last man to pull the red cloth past his knees will be the victor.”
Two of Dalgaard’s men stepped forward. They both sat on the ground facing each other, then placed the soles of their feet together with their knees bent. As they took up the rope and got a good grip on it, several of the spectators called encouragement to the man they favored.
Tarr watched closely, for he had never competed in the rope pull himself. The aim of the game was to simulate the motion of rowing a longship, which Tarr had also never done. He’d have to absorb all he could about technique from watching the first few competitors.
Alaric carefully positioned the red bit of linen evenly between the men’s feet. He paused for a long moment, then jerked his hand in the air. The two men immediately began straining aga
inst the rope, leaning back with all their strength to try to straighten their legs and pull the red cloth toward themselves.
The shouting from the crowd grew deafening as the two men grunted and fought. The red cloth shivered between them, sometimes wavering an inch toward one man, and then sliding back toward the other.
At last it appeared that the tide was turning. Inch by inch, one man gained the red linen. With a mighty heave, he finished off his opponent, sending him tumbling forward. A cheer went up as the two men drew to their feet and shared a quick forearm grab.
“I’d better get this over with,” Vestar said only loud enough for Tarr to hear. Though the young lad had fought valiantly in every competition, he was simply too young to stand a chance in any of the feats of strength.
Vestar was quickly eliminated, though Geirr won his first round. Only fourteen of the original twenty or so competitors remained in the games by this final day. Several had already hobbled away with injuries, forced to burn their wooden necklaces in the longhouse’s enormous fire. Their diminished numbers meant that the pairs went quickly, but Tarr waited as long as he could in order to watch and learn.
It appeared that more than brute strength was required to win at the rope pull. If a man sat too straight, he could be pulled off balance easier than if he hunched low.
When Tarr’s turn came, he spat into his hands to get a good grip on the rope, then hunkered into the ground, making himself as low as possible. Though his opponent was a brawny giant from a neighboring village, Tarr managed to yank the man forward and secure a victory in the first round.
In a surprise, Olaf was defeated in the second round. His grip on the rope slipped, handing an easy victory to his opponent.
As their numbers dwindled and the crowd grew even more enthralled, Tarr let his eyes seek Eyva.
She had been standing at the back, but those around her had gently shifted and nudged her until she was at the front. The crowd seemed taken with her, just as curious as Tarr was.
With the excitement of a bride prize added to the festivities, many of the villagers were as interested in watching her as they were in the games. They scrutinized her reactions to each event and speculated—sometimes loudly—on whom she would like to have as her husband. Tarr’s name rose on the lips of a few in the crowd even now. What would it be like to be married to the girl, so beautiful and yet so mysterious?
“You’re up, lad,” Olaf said next to Tarr, snapping him from his musings.
Tarr shook his head to clear it, but he could still feel Eyva’s eyes burning on his back as he turned to his opponent.
It was Geirr, grinning wickedly as his glance flicked between Tarr and where Eyva stood at the front of the crowd.
Though he counted Geirr as a new friend, Tarr glowered slightly at the look of merriment in the man’s eyes.
“Let’s give her a show, eh?” Geirr said. Despite the weakness of the winter sun and the cool air rising from the patches of snow that still lingered in the shadows circling the clearing, Geirr yanked his tunic over his head and tossed it aside.
The crowd clapped and cheered at the show of bare skin. Unbidden, Tarr’s gaze found Eyva. Her eyes had widened slightly at the sudden exposure of Geirr’s muscular torso. With a growl, Tarr followed suit, pulling his tunic off. He wouldn’t be outdone by Geirr, especially when it came to gaining Eyva’s attention.
Just before the wild cheers of the crowd drowned it out, he heard a gasp and glanced once more at Eyva. Whereas she had looked surprised, even shocked at Geirr’s display, her eyes were now riveted to Tarr. Her gaze drank in his form from top to bottom, and when their eyes at last met again, barely contained desire shimmered there.
A heat that had nothing to do with competition jolted through his veins. He took up his place on the ground across from Geirr, but he couldn’t escape the feel of her eyes on his bare skin.
Tarr remembered at the last second to hunch lower, but he’d been so distracted by Eyva’s stare that he got off to a bad start. Geirr pulled the rope toward himself and gained a few inches. Tarr leaned back, fighting with both his arms and legs not to slide forward any more. The rope trembled between the two as they struggled against each other.
Shouts of encouragement rang through the clearing, but Tarr hardly noticed them. His muscles ached, but still he fought on. Sweat trickled down his back despite the coolness of the air. Across from him, Geirr’s teeth clenched and his jaw flexed as they both tried to gain ground.
But Tarr couldn’t recover from his initial mistake. Geirr had the slight advantage of position, and after a long battle, he began to gain a few more inches at a time. Tarr never gave up, but at last, the red marker reached past Geirr’s knees and Alaric raised his hand, signaling the end of the match.
“Well fought, Tarr,” Alaric said as Tarr rose to his feet to exchange a shake with Geirr. “But be wary of distractions.” It was said lightly and Alaric’s green eyes danced in mirth. Tarr couldn’t help but silently curse himself.
“Speaking of distractions,” Geirr said as he released Tarr’s arm. He nodded over Tarr’s shoulder.
Tarr turned to find Eyva standing separate from the crowd. She’d picked up his discarded tunic and now held it, waiting for him to approach.
Tarr did his best to brush the dirt and grime from his hands and trousers as he approached. Most of the crowd had turned their attention on Geirr, who had earned a spot for himself in the final round of the rope pull by besting Tarr. But a few of the villagers’ curious gazes followed Tarr as he walked up to Eyva.
“You fought well,” she said softly, extending his tunic toward him. Her eyes once again raked him and he felt his blood warm. A pretty blush rose to her cheeks.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruffer than he intended.
A few titters sounded from behind him and he became acutely aware that they were being watched.
“Perhaps you’d like to go back to the village and rest before tonight’s skaldic competitions,” he suggested. “May I walk you there?”
A light of understanding flashed in her eyes. She give a little nod of thanks for giving them an excuse to escape the prying eyes. “Yes, please. My aunt’s hut isn’t far.”
Tarr pulled his tunic over his head, then motioned for her to lead the way. He followed her as she picked up the trail that led out of the clearing and back toward the village. They had to pass along a narrow path that cut through the high, rocky mountains at Dalgaard’s back.
Shaded as it was by the rock walls on either side, the path was still covered in snow, despite all the trampling feet of the villagers and competitors. The trail opened up on the back side of the village, though Tarr could see the fjord through the clusters of huts. Dalgaard was a truly remarkable place. The Jarl was well loved, the people content, and the village secure. Tarr would almost be tempted to stay here if his heart didn’t tug so strongly to the unknown west.
As they stepped out of the steep-walled path and into the village, he reluctantly came to a halt.
“I’d best get back to the games,” he said, though every fiber of his being longed to stay by her side.
She nodded, though her eyes told him that the weight of the unspoken truth pulled at both of them. They wanted each other. But it could never be.
As he turned to go, a flash of yellow caught his eyes near his feet. He bent and plucked a coltsfoot bloom, presenting it to Eyva with a sad smile.
He was rewarded with another blush, her eyes flitting away from his even as a half-smile curled her lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
As she reached to receive the flower, he caught sight of one of her palms. The welts were gone and the brightness of the red had faded, but the marks were still visible.
“Eyva,” he said, his gaze on her hand and a stone sitting in his stomach. “Why did your parents do that to you? And why have they made you offer yourself as the bride prize for these games?”
Her eyes widened in surprise and he felt like
he was drowning for a moment. Apparently he’d hit on something painful, some truth she did not wish to reveal.
But she surprised him by granting him a response. “I…I disobeyed them. I let myself believe that I was free to choose my own fate.”
He felt his brows draw down as he parsed her words. “You do not want the life they have planned for you?”
Those depthless, clear eyes flickered with something like gratitude. “Ja. You understand.”
“What life do you want? And why would they possibly stand against your wishes?”
She lowered her gaze and absently twirled the yellow flower between her fingers. “It matters not,” she said after a long pause. “They were right. I shouldn’t let myself indulge in fantasies anymore.”
Without thinking, he captured her chin in his hand, drawing her eyes up to his. “This may not mean aught to you, for I don’t believe our fates can be one, but… If you were mine, I would never deny you the path that your heart desires.”
Before he did something truly foolish like lean down and take her mouth in a soft kiss, he released his hold on her chin and stepped back.
Her eyes shone as she held him with her gaze. With a little shake of her head, she lowered her dark brows. “Why is it that you are so kind to me? You don’t even know me.”
Tarr let his gaze drop to the flower in her hand. “The first time I saw you, you were like a breath of spring air in the dead of a winter’s eve. You were brave to brandish your seax, even with your injured hands. You were kind to offer me shelter, even though you had to hide it from your family. And even now I sense that some brighter fire lives within you, even though you are trying to snuff it.”
Those searching eyes flicked to his for the briefest moment, but quickly darted away. Not before Tarr saw the deep well of emotion his words had stirred, though.
Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection Page 30