Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection
Page 33
“Does this mean you do want to marry her?” Geirr called out to the chuckles of the crowd.
Tarr pulled back and looked down at her, his dark eyes shimmering. “Mayhap we can remain engaged for a while—there is clearly a great deal I have to learn about you.”
Eyva’s heart swelled until it felt as if it would burst through her chest. “Ja, I’d like that.”
“But on one condition,” Tarr said, growing serious.
She stilled. Would he ask something she was unwilling to give? Would he ask her to abandon her dreams, as her parents had?
Tarr plucked one of the coltsfoot blooms from behind her ear. “So beautiful,” he said almost to himself as he gazed at her. He brushed the flower against her cheek, soft as a breath. “Promise me never to change, never to cede your dreams. I always want to see the sparkle of life that lights your eyes at this moment.”
She launched herself into his arms once again, squeezing him tight against her pounding heart.
“I promise.”
Epilogue
Eyva blocked the wooden sword whirring toward her neck with her own. Reverberations shot through her arms, but she held fast to the practice sword.
She spun, quickly turning the block into an attack. Her sword arced through the spring sunshine, making contact with Tarr’s thigh.
Tarr stumbled back, limping slightly but grinning from ear to ear. He waited, sword gripped in front of him, for her next move.
“Are you two trying to kill each other or mate?” Geirr’s playful voice drifted from the other side of the practice field that was tucked behind Dalgaard. “Try to look more like warriors and less like lovesick puppies.”
Eyva rolled her eyes. Geirr seemed to take great pleasure in teasing them. He even took credit for their engagement, insisting that it was his skaldic verse that had encouraged them to embrace their draw toward one another. Though that was a stretch, Eyva and Tarr had learned to tolerate the glee Geirr found in making mischief at their expense.
The field in which they stood was filled with warriors sparring with wooden swords. Eyva glanced in Geirr’s direction and caught sight of Madrena’s pale blonde head flashing brightly in the midmorning sun. She and Geirr had been squaring off so that she could show him a bind that disarmed a sword-bearing opponent. Olaf and Vestar worked together nearby, with Alaric watching and offering the younger lad pointers.
With a chuckle, Tarr straightened out of his battle stance, his body at once relaxed. Eyva watched him step toward her, heated memories of just what that body could do flooding back to her.
“Shall we call it a day, love?” Tarr asked, sauntering to Eyva’s side. He bent his light brown head and captured her mouth in a kiss. The contact started off light, a passing brush, but she didn’t release him. One hand gripping the front of his tunic, she held him close, tilting her mouth to allow him to deepen the kiss.
Like lightning, she lifted her practice sword and thrust the tip into Tarr’s midsection lightly. He grunted, his eyes flashing open in surprise.
“You’re dead, Tarr,” Madrena’s dry voice called. “Excellent work, Eyva.”
Tarr raised an eyebrow at her. “Your ability to use all your skills and powers grows each day, love.”
Eyva’s chest swelled with pride. She and Tarr had been training hard, along with all the others hoping to sail west in a month or two. Every evening, the trainees would leave the practice fields sore and tired but excited.
Yet as the snows had melted and the practice fields filled with coltsfoot blossoms, Eyva and Tarr found that even in the face of their weariness, their bodies sparked to life when they were alone.
Even now, Tarr’s compliment held a note of heat to it. His dark eyes dipped to her lips and the now-familiar flutter came to life deep in her belly.
“Back to the sword work, you two!” Madrena shouted. “You both still have much to learn.”
Eyva grinned at Tarr, who shot her a wink as he stepped back and raised his wooden practice sword once again. She readied herself to launch another attack.
“On with it, shieldmaiden,” Tarr said, his eyes flashing with joy as he held his hands wide. “Come and take my heart.”
The End
Author’s Note
Although this is a work of fiction, one of my favorite parts about being a writer of historical romance is blending events, facts, and practices from historical record with a love story of my own invention.
For example, I loved weaving together the love story in this novella with a wildflower common to Scandinavia, the coltsfoot. Coltsfoot is sometimes confused for a dandelion, but whereas dandelions send up leaves followed by flowers, coltsfoot sends their yellow blooms up first. Coltsfoot was prized both in the past and today for its medicinal qualities. The flowers, leaves, and roots can all be used, and are said to be effective against coughs, asthma, and the common cold.
Coltsfoot is one of the earliest blooming flowers in Scandinavia (as well as the United Kingdom and North America) each spring. In the milder climates of southern Scandinavia, the blooms can arrive in January or February, whereas farther north they wait until April to make their appearance. As an indication that the long, hard winters of Scandinavia are drawing to an end, the arrival of coltsfoot is widely celebrated. In some communities, the appearance of the cheery little flower even makes the local news! It is easy to imagine falling in love at the sight of the little yellow flower when spring is in the air.
Just like the rest of us, Vikings enjoyed playing games and sports to test their strength, prove their skill, and provide entertainment at celebratory events. Festivals to celebrate births, deaths, political unions, and marriages often featured games and feats of strength and skill.
Competitions included throwing stones of varying weights, wrestling, swimming contests (including matches that basically involved trying to drown your opponent and not be drowned yourself), combat competitions and demonstrations, and the rope pull. As I’ve tried to portray it here, the rope pull involved two men facing each other on the ground with the soles of their feet touching. Each man tried to pull the other forward by the rope they both held. It was meant to simulate the motion of rowing, thus showing a Viking’s aptitude and ability at this necessary skill.
Perhaps the most remarkable (to me, anyway) competition was the Viking version of a drinking game mixed with a poetry smack down. Each man would be paired with a woman, who would be his drinking partner for the evening. Then competitors would compose verses of poetry designed to bolster their own reputation while belittling someone else’s. Verses were filled with boasts about the speaker’s manliness and prowess in battle, and insults about his opponent’s cowardice, lack of sexual ability, and weakness. As the event went on, the verses grew ever more overblown and bawdy, but the goal was to improve upon one’s wordplay even while becoming increasingly drunk.
I had fun composing the verses in this story, though I didn’t follow the traditional skaldic style the Vikings often used. Skaldic poetry uses a distinctive meter and follows rigid patterns. Typically each stanza contains eight lines, and each line has six syllables. Three of the syllables in each line must be stressed, while the last syllable must be unstressed. The lines are joined in alliterative pairs, and the first line of each pair must have two alliterative syllables. All lines must have internal rhyme.
Needless to say, I was not up to this task. Instead, I used a loose version of the ballad form for my verses. The ballad form is broad, but is generally characterized as being a four-line stanza, with a beat scheme of four-three-four-three and a rhyme scheme of a-b-a-b. The ballad took shape in medieval France, but may have roots in older Scandinavian traditions of song and storytelling. As a fun side-note, most medieval drinking songs are written in the ballad form. Knowing this, I could picture the easy, lilting rhythm of the ballad being spoken during a Viking drinking and poetry contest.
Thank you for journeying back with me to the Viking era!
Thank You!
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About the Author
Emma Prince is the Bestselling and Amazon All-Star Author of steamy historical romances jam-packed with adventure, conflict, and of course love!
Emma grew up in drizzly Seattle, but traded her rain boots for sunglasses when she and her husband moved to the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada. Emma spent several years in academia, both as a graduate student and an instructor of college-level English and Humanities courses. She always savored her “fun books”—normally historical romances—on breaks or vacations. But as she began looking for the next chapter in her life, she wondered if perhaps her passion could turn into a career. Ever since then, she’s been reading and writing books that celebrate happily ever afters!
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A Viking’s Promise
By
Elizabeth Rose
Copyright © 2015 by Elizabeth Rose Krejcik
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual organizations or persons living or deceased is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without the author’s written permission.
Prologue
Norway, 798 AD
Fourteen-year-old Kadlin Olvisdotter ran through the field of small blue flowers, laughing and being chased by the most handsome boy of the clan, Brandr Gunnison. Her blond braids trailed behind her in the spring breeze and her heart beat rapidly in her chest as Brandr gained on her.
“Kadlin, you know you can’t outrun me,” he called out from behind her. She often teased and pestered him until he stopped what he was doing and chased after her. Today she’d sneaked up behind him, yanking on the long, thin, single braid that hung down one side of his head, and then ran away quickly.
He was two years her senior and also the son of Jarl Gunnar. He’d been training to take the place of his father and rule their farming village of Skathwaite since the day he was born.
Brandr was on her heels and when she looked back over her shoulder, the boy dove for her. His hands clasped around her waist and they both fell to the ground, laughing.
“Kadlin, you shouldn’t play games like that. I’m a warrior and will always catch you. Besides, sneaking up on me wasn’t a good idea. I could have taken your head off with my battle axe before I knew it was you.” Loose strands of Brandr’s long, blond hair lifted in the breeze and he pushed his lone braid to the side as he positioned his face directly above hers, staring at her lips.
“Brandr Gunnison, you need someone to make you smile and laugh once in a while and I’m the one to do it. Now get off of me or I’ll have to show you a move my mother taught me to keep the boys at bay. And I assure you, you won’t be laughing.”
Kadlin’s mother had been a shieldmaiden since before she was married and often accompanied the men on raids. She was proud of her skills and that she was able to fight with the warriors to help supply the village with goods they needed in order to survive. But with her mother often gone as well as her father, that left Kadlin to care for the land and her three younger siblings along with the other women of the village.
“Go ahead and try.” Brandr’s brow lifted and his mouth turned up into a smirk. He knew as well as she did that she didn’t possess the warrior skills of her mother. Instead, she’d inherited the gift of her late grandmother who was once the seer of the clan.
Kadlin lifted her knee to his groin, but Brandr was too quick and managed to move out of the way.
“I saw that coming without even being a seer,” he said with a chuckle. Then he did something that she knew had been coming for quite some time now since she’d had a vision about it months ago. Or perhaps she’d created the vision with hopeful wishing, but either way it was about to come true.
He leaned over, his long hair as well as the flowers enclosing them in a moment of privacy as he reached out and pressed his lips against hers in a quick kiss.
Kadlin stilled beneath his touch, looking up through the fields of Fjellminneblom – or mountain flower memories all around her. Here is where she’d had the vision of him kissing her. Right here in the field of flowers that most people called Forget-me-nots. Well, she certainly would never forget this moment as long as she lived.
“You kissed me!” She pushed up off the ground in excitement to a sitting position. Her hand went to her lips that were still wet from the essence of his strong mouth upon hers. She liked the way his lips had felt against hers. It was even better than she’d envisioned. She never thought his lips would feel so soft, or his hands so warm against her body. It was her first kiss and she was thrilled it came from a boy she admired. They’d grown up together and she felt closer to Brandr than she did any of the others in the entire village. She and Brandr had always been good friends.
He hunkered down next to her with his bright blue-green eyes the color of the vast North Sea drinking her in. She swore she saw a mischievous twinkle within them, and it made her smile to know that not all the Viking men were angry and vengeful. She liked this side of him and hoped he would never turn out to be like his father. His father, the jarl – or earl, was always serious and focused on farming and raids. She swore she had never even seen the man smile in all the years she’d known him.
“Kadlin, you are at marrying age now. I will marry you when I return from raiding and you will become my wife.”
“You . . . will?” Being Brandr’s wife had always been a dream of hers. She would be married not only to a warrior who would someday be jarl of the clan, but she’d also be spending the rest of her life with someone she trusted and admired. She didn’t have time to rejoice from his announcement, because a new vision flashed through her mind just then, blocking out any happiness or rays of light and hope. This vision wasn’t of kissing a boy in a field of flowers – this time it was a much darker vision. This time, instead of love and new beginnings, she saw death and destruction.
In her mind’s eye she saw dozens of Viking warriors, all bloodied and broken, lying dead upon the grounds of a foreign land. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she shivered though the day was not cold at all. She shook her head and wrapped her arms around her body in a false sense of security. “Brandr, do not go on the raid with the others today. Stay here in Skathwaite. Please.”
“Not go?” he asked with a hearty laugh. “I wouldn’t even consider it. This is my first real raid and I’ll finally be able to go with the men overseas. I’ve trained for this my entire life.”
“It’s too dangerous,” she warned him.
“Ja, it might be dangerous, but I assure you, I’m well prepared. I’ll be back, and as soon as I return, we’ll marry. I have it all planned out.”
“I feel ill all of a sudden,” she told him, hearing screams and clashing swords and the sound of horses’ hooves trampling across a hardened ground – all in her head.
“Are you afraid I’ll forget you?” His voice was carefree and light and she had to remind herself that he couldn’t hear or see the visions she was experiencing. She almost wished he could. If so, maybe he’d consider her warning.
“Promise me,” she said, feeling grief and desperation within her heart. “Promise me you’ll return to me, Brandr.” She reached out and grabbed his hands tightly, squeezing them between hers. She longed to hold on to him and keep him from leaving on the longboats with the rest of the raiders that were already preparing for their journey.
He pulled away from her grasp, and reached down and picked a stalk of the mountain flowers and slipped it between the twines of one of her braids. “This flower is my promise. Wear this Forget-me-not and when you look at it, you’ll remember that a Viking’s promise is never broken. To break a promise would be dishonorable. Any true Viking would rather die than to not keep his word to one of his kind. You should know that, Kadlin.”
“I do know that,” she said, but this knowledge did nothing to calm her.
He smiled at her, and in his eyes she saw the sincerity of his words as well as the pride of who he was. One large, strong hand reached out, and he cupped her cheek with his palm. She finally relaxed and leaned into the warmth and security of his touch.
The sweet scent of the small, blue flowers all around her now replaced the repugnant odor of death, managing to put her at ease for a mere moment. She reached up to her braid, and fingered the delicate blue petals of the dainty flower that now held the heavy weight of such a strong promise. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the flowers – of his promise, remembering how it smelled, sounded, tasted and felt.