Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Embarrassment and sadness washed over her. She tried to pull out of Tarr’s embrace, but he held fast to her. As the crowd’s shouts for his responding verse intensified, at last he stood, shifting her to the bench by his side.

  Those gathered fell quiet as they waited for Tarr’s rebuttal. Tarr met Geirr’s teasing gaze, but then he swept his eyes over all those in the longhouse.

  “A winner who loses draws our contempt,

  But pity perhaps should be granted.

  For although it is noble to make the attempt,

  Pain blooms where joy once was planted.”

  The crowd fell into a stunned silence. They had been expecting Tarr to lash out at Geirr’s manhood or his lack of ability on the battlefield, not compose a melancholy and poignant verse about happiness denied.

  Eyva’s eyes darted around the longhouse. Her gaze snagged on Laurel, who sat motionless on the raised dais, transfixed by Tarr’s words. Her dark brows drawn down in sadness, she slowly lifted her drinking horn toward him in salute of his skill.

  One at a time, the others in the hall raised their horns before a subdued buzz of conversation filled the air. Geirr remained silent, a look of puzzlement on his normally jovial features.

  With one regret-filled glance down at Eyva, Tarr stepped over the bench and began to weave his way toward the longhouse’s doors.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” he said over his shoulder to his friends at the table. “I just need some air.”

  Eyva scrambled to her feet and made her way through the densely packed crowd after him. Several sets of eyes watched her, and whispered speculations about the two young lovers reached her ears, but she gave the crowd no mind. She slipped out of the wide wooden doors just as they were closing behind Tarr.

  “What you said in there…” she began, but suddenly her throat was too tight to continue.

  Tarr turned and pinned her with those midnight eyes. They held each other in a wordless stare, their eyes embracing even as several feet of cool night air separated them.

  “We are only bringing more pain upon ourselves by continuing this,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You will be engaged to another tomorrow and I will sail west. That has always been the case. We only torture ourselves by imagining it can be different.”

  In that moment, she almost found the words to curse their plans and their fates, to defy her parents and the laws of the Northlands. She almost found the strength to launch herself into his arms and never let go.

  But he was right. Hadn’t she told herself a hundred times in the last sennight that it was time she gave up her dreams, her desire to choose her own fate? She had to be strong and firm like him.

  She dropped her head so that his eyes could no longer captivate her. With a little nod, she surrendered to the truth of their situation. She felt the last of the fire that burned within her snuff out.

  A breath of air caressed her heated cheeks as he strode past her and quietly slipped into the longhouse.

  “Why do you not fight for yourself?”

  Madrena’s flat voice had Eyva snapping up her head. The shieldmaiden must have ducked out of the longhouse at the same time Tarr re-entered, for her approach had been silent.

  “What do you mean?”

  Madrena came to stand in front of Eyva, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, why do you not go after what you truly want? Where did the shieldmaiden-in-training I once knew go?”

  “I told you already,” Eyva said, “it is more complicated than that. I cannot simply—”

  Madrena shifted slightly and suddenly a blade was in her hands, flashing in the moonlight.

  Without thinking, Eyva leapt backward just in time to avoid the blade as it sliced through the air between her and her mentor.

  “What are you doing?” she cried in shock at Madrena.

  “Trying to find a shieldmaiden,” Madrena replied just before stabbing the blade once more at Eyva.

  Acting on pure instinct, Eyva dove and rolled out of the way of the flashing blade. As she came to her feet, she reached for the seax tucked in her boot. The cool hilt settled into her palm with a reassuring familiarity. She held the blade up, ready to either deflect another of Madrena’s attacks or launch one of her own.

  But just as quickly, Madrena relaxed her stance and straightened. “There she is,” she said, pleased.

  “W-was that some sort of test?” Eyva panted.

  “Ja, it was, and you passed.”

  “What—”

  “Eyva,” Madrena cut in, pointing the tip of her blade at her. “If you won’t fight for yourself, then I will.”

  With that cryptic statement, Madrena stalked off into the night.

  Eyva re-sheathed her seax with trembling fingers and stood, brushing the dirt from her woolen dress. She began picking her way through the dark back to her Aunt Helga’s hut. Whatever Madrena had planned, she couldn’t get her hopes up.

  For tomorrow morning, when the winner of the games was announced, she’d have to face her fate at last.

  Chapter Nine

  The village was slow to rise the next morning. Although Eyva had retreated to her aunt’s hut, she imagined the revelry in the longhouse continued as long as there was ale to be had.

  Despite retiring early, Eyva had barely slept a wink. Her mind kept tumbling over and over the morning’s possibilities.

  If Tarr was announced the winner of the games, she would be presented to him as the victor’s prize, but he had made it clear that he would refuse the winnings. Would she be given to the second-place finisher? Or would she simply be sent back to her family’s farmstead without a husband to display to them? Though she hated the idea of spending the rest of her life working the farm under her parents’ thumbs, it twisted her heart even more painfully to imagine wedding a man.

  A man other than Tarr, a cruel voice whispered in her head. She pushed the voice down. Perhaps Geirr would be named the winner. He’d done well throughout the games, matching Tarr in many events. He was better than a stranger, for she sensed kindness behind his teasing eyes. But though he was a strong, good-tempered man, she felt no heat for him like she did for Tarr.

  Helga helped prepare her to be offered as the bride prize. She wore a fresh dress of blue-dyed wool and her aunt produced two fine brooches from the bottom of one of her trunks. As Helga fastened the brooches to the front of Eyva’s dress, Eyva braided back the dark hair around her temples.

  At last her aunt deemed her fit to be presented to her future husband. Dread twisted like a knot in Eyva’s stomach as Helga guided her from the hut and into the gray morning.

  The village was finally stirring, with several people making their way around lingering patches of snow toward the longhouse for the closing of the festivities and the announcement of the games’ winner.

  Just as Eyva took her first step toward the longhouse, a flash of yellow caught her eye. She looked down to find a clump of coltsfoot flowers poking through the muddy, slushy ground.

  Her heart twisted painfully. Though winter was long from over, the first signs of spring kept finding their way through. It seems like a cruel reminder of the spring Tarr had made blossom within her—and the cold winter that now descended upon her.

  Tarr’s words to her on the night they met drifted back—spring always comes once more. She clung to that hope as she plucked a few of the cheery yellow flowers and tucked them into the braids above her ears on either side of her head.

  With her frosty aunt gripping her elbow, she made her way to the longhouse along with the straggling, bleary-eyed villagers who had indulged in ale and merriment late into the night. She felt more like she was going to her own execution than the announcement of who she would wed.

  A crowd had gathered in the village square in front of the longhouse. Eyva quickly spotted Jarl Eirik and Laurel, who held their sleeping son, along with Madrena’s twin brother, Alaric. Madrena was nowhere in sight, but Eyva supposed it was for the best. Her mentor was clearly against Ey
va’s submission to her parents’ wishes, but that didn’t matter now.

  Her eyes scanned the clump of broad, brawny competitors who’d gathered at Jarl Eirik’s side. Her gaze skidded across Olaf, Geirr, and the youth named Vestar and landed on Tarr.

  He looked more handsome to her now than he ever had before. He still wore a simple tunic, trousers, and cloak, but something about the way he held himself spoke of his nobleness, his worthiness. His broad shoulders were squared, the hard line of his jaw firm. Those dark blue eyes clashed with hers for a moment before he shifted his gaze, his hands clenching at his sides.

  “We’ve gathered out here because a few of our guests are still sleeping it off in the longhouse,” Eirik said in a loud, clear voice. Chuckles met his words.

  “I cannot thank you all enough for celebrating the birth of my son with me and my wife,” Eirik went on, his tone pleased. “There is only one remaining piece of fun to be had on this midwinter’s morn and that is to name a victor.”

  The crowd seemed to pulse with eager anticipation. Eirik turned to the nearest competitor and lifted the piece of wood hanging from his neck. With a quick scan of the minimal markings there, he shook his head and moved to the next man.

  One by one, the men were eliminated under Eirik’s scrutiny of the victories and defeats carved into their panel of wood. At last, only Tarr and Geirr remained. Eirik held both necklaces up for inspection, looking between the two to weigh the markings on each carefully.

  At last, the Jarl dropped both men’s necklaces and turned to the waiting crowd.

  “We have a winner of the festival games,” he said. “Will the maiden, Eyva, come forward to receive her husband?”

  Helga gave her a brusque shove and the crowd parted for her. She caught the now familiar whispers about her unusual hair and beauty, but she paid them no heed. She forced her eyes to lock on Eirik, lest another glance at Tarr undo her resolve. On trembling knees, she stepped next to her Jarl and faced the crowd.

  “The winner of these games,” Jarl Eirik said, his voice reverberating across those gathered, “is Tarr Olvirsson.”

  For the briefest moment, relief and joy flooded Eyva. But all too quickly, the flash of happiness evaporated, for she knew what would come next.

  Tarr stepped to Eirik’s other side, never looking at her.

  “It is a great honor to be named victor of these festival games,” Tarr said to the Jarl, yet he directed his voice to those gathered. “However, I cannot accept the bride prize.”

  Discontented murmurs rose in the crowd. Shame burned Eyva’s cheeks.

  “How dare you refuse her?”

  The angry shout came from the back of the crowd, but Eyva didn’t need to see through the throng of people to know who’d spoken. Dread suddenly hammered in her chest.

  Before her horrified eyes, Eyva saw her mother and father plowing their way to the front.

  Chapter Ten

  Confusion broke out among the villagers as they looked around for who had spoken.

  “How dare you insult us in this manner?” her mother demanded when she reached Eyva. But before Tarr could address her, she wrapped a hand around Eyva’s arm and squeezed painfully. “It is because of your foolish notions of being a shieldmaiden, isn’t it, girl? Did you scare him off?”

  Her mother’s hiss had only been meant for Eyva’s ears, but both Eirik and Tarr rounded on her, eyes wide.

  “Nei, mother, it wasn’t—”

  “You wished to be a shieldmaiden?” Tarr probed, eyebrows shooting up. “That is what you have been hiding.” Now he spoke almost to himself, but she saw realization dawn across his face.

  “Your father and I made ourselves perfectly clear. You were ordered to drop that warrior nonsense and secure yourself a husband, but apparently you have disobeyed us yet again.” Her mother’s hand tightened on her arm threateningly.

  “What are you doing here, madam?” Eirik asked sternly, trying to get a handle on the situation.

  “I brought them.” Madrena’s authoritative voice cut across those gathered and she, too, began making her way toward the front.

  By now, the villagers, who had come hoping to see an engagement between the games’ victor and the maiden bride prize, stirred restlessly. There were several shouts of confusion from the back.

  Jarl Eirik held up a hand, instantly silencing the crowd.

  “Madrena, explain yourself,” he said crossly.

  Madrena reached the jumble at the front that consisted of Eyva, Eirik, Tarr, and Eyva’s mother and father.

  “Eyva Knutsdottir has been training with me for several months to become a shieldmaiden,” Madrena said loudly.

  Eyva felt Tarr’s stunned gaze on her and resisted the urge to flinch back. She would not apologize for her dreams, even if they were never to become reality.

  “I learned recently that her parents forbade her to continue with her training and ordered her to take a husband at these games.”

  Eirik’s hard gaze shifted to Eyva’s parents. “Is this true?”

  “It is, Jarl,” Knut said.

  “The girl needs to be put in her place,” Eyva’s mother added.

  “You should know that I do not look kindly on forcing women into marriages they do not agree to,” Eirik said, his voice a threatening growl.

  Eyva’s parents both withdrew slightly, but her mother dared to respond. “But Jarl, it is our right by Northland law that as her parents, we determine when and whom she marries.”

  Eirik leveled them both with a long, hard stare before at last grunting. “That is true. I cannot force you to act differently, for the law is on your side, but know that I do not favor such practices.”

  Although that was what Eyva had told Madrena when the shieldmaiden had first offered to intercede, Eyva’s heart still sank. Other than the public embarrassment Tarr’s rejection and her parents’ protest caused her, nothing had changed.

  Eyva’s mother straightened her spine, seemingly trying to regain her bluster from earlier. “Very well, Jarl. Since it is our decision, we wished her to marry the victor of the games, but now this…lad rejects her.” She motioned toward Tarr, her eyes narrowing on him. “Is our daughter not good enough for you, boy?”

  Tarr stiffened under her mother’s rudeness. “Nei, for were circumstances different, I would gladly marry Eyva. But I joined these games to earn myself a spot on the voyage to the west this summer.” Tarr’s gaze shifted to Alaric, who stood a few paces behind Eyva. “I wish to go exploring, to settle in a new land. I don’t believe that is compatible with accepting a bride.”

  Madrena sighed loudly and rolled her eyes, drawing everyone’s attention. “This man’s reasons for refusing the bride prize don’t matter,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “As I was saying, I brought Eyva’s parents here. I wanted to give them the courtesy of informing them that I am conscripting their daughter for our voyage west.”

  “What?” Eyva breathed, even as her mother gasped and the crowd murmured in surprise.

  “I think if you train hard from now until summer, you’ll be ready,” Madrena said, giving Eyva a little smile.

  “But she can’t… You can’t do that!” Eyva’s mother sputtered. “She is our daughter! We order her to marry, and the law says—”

  “The law says,” Madrena snapped, rounding on Eyva’s mother, “that any Northlander can be asked to fight on his—or her—Jarl’s behalf. Jarl Eirik has named me second in command of the voyage to the west. I can assure you that there will be fighting on Eirik’s behalf. We need a crew of warriors and Eyva has a natural instinct for it.”

  Though she spoke boldly, Madrena shifted her gaze to Eirik, a hint of askance in her pale eyes.

  Eyva couldn’t decide where to let her gaze settle. Tarr’s eyes were still wide and locked on her, a flash of hope in them. Her parents both looked baffled and desperate. Eirik drew his golden brows down as he considered all that was transpiring.

  “Madrena has the right of the law,�
� he said at last. Eyva’s mother’s jaw dropped open and her father slumped wearily. “I can conscript whomever I choose into service in my name.”

  But then he pinned Eyva with a stern gaze. “You wish to be a shieldmaiden?”

  She nodded vigorously, despite the painful tightening of her mother’s hand, which was still wrapped around her arm.

  “Even if it means going on a dangerous voyage to a new land and possibly never returning home?”

  Nothing could have made her happier than the chance to escape her family once and for all—except that suddenly her eyes found Tarr. Would she leave with Madrena and the others even if he weren’t chosen to come with them?

  “Ja,” she said after a pause, her heart ripping at the prospect. But now that her dream had suddenly been offered to her once more, she couldn’t turn away from it.

  Eirik followed her pained gaze and looked over to Tarr. The Jarl pursed his lips in thought.

  “What say you, Alaric?” Eirik asked over Eyva’s head. “You are to be the captain on this voyage.”

  Alaric shrugged nonchalantly, but his sharp green eyes quickly took in both Eyva and Tarr. “I trust my sister’s judgment to take the girl. But ’twill be a tight squeeze on the longship, for I had already decided to take several of the men from the games.”

  Eyva’s heart leapt into her throat, her eyes seeking Tarr once more. A look of guarded hope held his features.

  “That one, for example,” Alaric went on, casually pointing toward Tarr. “He more than earned himself a spot on the voyage.”

  Could this truly be happening? It had seemed impossible mere moments before for Eyva to be free of her parents, to be allowed to train as a shieldmaiden, and to have Tarr by her side. And now they would both be sailing west come summer—together.

  Wrenching her arm free of her mother’s grasp, Eyva bolted for Tarr even as he stepped toward her. They collided in a rough embrace, his body a rock wall of muscle.