Chapter 4 #2
On one hand, I do want to be with my friends. I want to share a drink and dance until I am sweaty and happy. On the other hand, I need to find the tomb and the bow, and there’s a lynx with a fever in my bedroom. I wish I could tell Katrine, but she never takes me as seriously as Joanna does.
Joanna leans forward to grab my attention as we walk.
I know what she’s asking. The three of us share everything.
At home, we all sleep in the same longhouse, but what I did last night and the secret I am keeping needs to stay between us.
Shaking my head, I silently beg her not to tell Katrine about the lynx.
I need her to understand there are things I don’t plan on sharing with everyone.
“Today is our chance to shine,” Joanna thankfully blurts as we come to the edge of the open field.
Most likely a field they aren’t growing food on this year, so it has been turned into an arena for the games.
The sun rises late in the morning and will set early, giving us a short window of light and meager warmth.
“Do you think Harald will let women participate in the games? He has been rather brutish about women from other clans doing anything on his land.” I wearily look around at the hungover group.
Women are not dressed for the games. They are covered, head to toe, in long cloaks and fur trimmed dresses.
Their arms are laden with pitchers of ale and trays of hot food.
In our clan, men and women are allowed to take up any position in the games during Yule or in any of our holidays. We value the strength of all of our people. Here, the Jarl is turning a vivacious group of Aske women into nothing better than a collection of servants.
“Harald, the Maiden is here.” I hear someone alert him to my arrival, and I separate myself from my friends. Harald is covered in thick furs, the tails of the animal skins dangling from his shoulders.
“What a beauty she is. Isn’t she?” he asks the surrounding men, and they look me over like a pack of wolves waiting to tear a doe limb from limb.
“What games are we playing today?” I ask the group. Usually, Vikings throw knives and wrestle, but even crafting the finest axe or carving gods in wood can be a judged event.
“Jorvik and your clan sung your praises with the bow, so the archery field is yours,” Harald says. I know I need to play nice, so I walk straight through the men, making a show of standing directly before him, and I bow my head.
“Thank you,” I say in the shared breath between us. He runs his teeth over his lips, making me sweat it out. His fat fingers run along my ribcage as he guides me up to his eye level. He kisses me gently on the cheek, his coarse lips and beard scratching my cold skin.
“Tonight, Rasha, I expect you to be by my side,” he says.
“I expect you to treat the women the same as the men, and I’ll gladly sit by your side.
” I catch his stare and force some form of happiness or lightheartedness over my cheeks to my wide eyes.
“Please.” I hate saying it, but the thought creeps into my head that maybe Harald knows more about the tomb.
Will he be willing to share his information if he thinks I am willing to be his wife?
I know it’s wrong to falsely lead someone on, but my choices are limited.
After a beat, Harald adjusts his heavy belt and nods his head.
“You can participate,” he says, and I turn away, letting out a sigh of relief.
“Joanna too?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Yeah, let her have a go. We can make bets as to who she’ll have to tend to if she is outshot.”
“Only if you have your own women participating to make the bet fair,” Jorvik interrupts.
His voice is like a hammer hitting an anvil.
Joanna and I swivel to find him standing behind us.
She looks at him with new eyes, and my heart sinks.
Jorvik is only playing by the rules of men, not showing weakness or submissiveness. He doesn’t care what happens to Joanna.
“Am I playing by your rules?” I lighten my voice and give my brother a bow in the absurdity of our situation.
“Don’t embarrass the men. Throw a shot or two in humility,” he whispers at my back as I walk to the weapons station.
“Relax, won’t you?” My temper flares. He raises his hands in defense and walks away.
The weapons station is abundant, another nice feature of living with a clan receiving funding from a King.
I am always practicing with my bow or an ax, but Jorvik uses all the coin we receive and provides me with what he sees fit.
If I became the Jarl’s wife, maybe I’d be able to make my own purchases and find someone to train me to make my own weapons?
Piling on the positives keeps me going when I’d rather run off into the woods.
I don’t want to think about not finding the tomb or come to the conclusion that Skadi is a myth.
When we reach the table, the men preparing the weapons hesitate to give us what we require.
“I know you are the Maiden, but did Harald give you permission?” a man asks us.
“He did,” I reply, and his face lights up. The men behind him breathe a sigh of relief while an uneasy feeling sits in the pit of my stomach. What has Harald done to everyone here to make them so fearful of disobeying him?
“For you and your friend. My name is Leif. If you need anything else this week, you are welcome to ask.”
“Thank you. Do you make the arrows yourself?” I ask Leif. He smiles, his beard cut short and his brown hair braided tight to his skull.
“No, we have blacksmiths. I am a wood worker by trade. Actually, there is someone you might like to meet later. He smiths in precious metals.”
The horn blows to start the competition, and I scoop up the bows and quivers to walk with Joanna into the field.
“These are nice,” Joanna acknowledges, taking an identical bow to mine from my arms. Much longer than our bows at home, these are made for men with a heavy draw on the string. Our work is cut out for us.
“Archer’s ready!” the judge shouts, and we take our positions. Joanna is next to me, and a man from Harald’s clan is on my left. Another two men flank us, all looking to show off their skills and maybe gain the gods favor.
Taking up a sturdy stance, I narrow my vision down range, across the gleaming white snow, to the small target on a hay bale.
Bending down for an arrow, I feel the weight of the long shaft in my palm and line it up with the grip.
All my worries sink into the snow and ice as I situate my left hand on the front grip and pull back the heavy cord to string the arrow.
My cheek rests against the bristles on the end of the arrow, and I let my heartbeat slow.
Nothing in this moment matters except the target at the end of the range.
“Loose,” the judge says, and I let go. All my fear and guilt flies away as the arrow rips past my cheek and across the field.
The judge walks from target to target and places a flag at each that hit the center.
The man to my left doesn’t get a flag and slaps his hand against the bench before stomping off, leaving Joanna, the two remaining men, and myself to shoot in the next round.
Again, we ready ourselves, and I release a second arrow, knowing by the almost silent sound of the wood splitting air that I hit my mark.
Joanna lets her nerves get to her and misses the target completely.
So does the man closest to me. Not showing anyone any favor, I keep my eye on the targets at the end of the field while the judge calls to set the last two closer.
With Joanna and the two men gone, I glance over, only to be stunned. The handsome man from the medicine room this morning stands with a foot on the bench and the bow gently balanced over his knee.
“I thought you were injured,” I say, turning back to the field.
“And I thought your friend had a fever,” he responds, watching Joanna run to be by Katrine’s side. My gut rolls over, and my palms start to sweat. Who is this man? One minute, he’s bruised, laid up in a medicine room cot, and another, he’s drawing back a bow with no effort at all.
“Different friend,” I reply. I can’t help myself. I turn to catch his stare. Hazel eyes, no different than this morning, reflect back at me with the same attractive smirk. His form is perfect. He is not bothered by the crowd that’s gathered or the soft snow swirling around us.
“Archer’s ready!” the judge shouts, and another surveyor sprints away from the range.
I set my last arrow and ignore the way he pulls back his string with little effort, lining up the feathers and his fingers against his healing cheek.
Focus, Rasha.
My calloused fingertips take up the crafted arrow. All my muscles scream in protest from carrying the lynx up to my room. Planting my feet in the snow, I make use of the fresh powder to dig my heels in, and we wait for the horn.
The wind tickles my nose, sending tiny flurries around the back of my neck, and I fight the urge to shrug my shoulders.
“Loose!”
We let our arrows fly before the judge finishes the word. The two arrows shoot down the line like they are one. He hits his target with such velocity it falls over, and the crowd goes wild. My arrow hits dead center along with the two previous arrows, and my heart resumes its nervous pitter patter.
“Impressive,” he says, holding out a hand for me to take.
Gripping the bow tighter, I don’t know what to say or do. Technically, we have a draw, and we could go again.
“We tied,” I say, giving him my hand. He brings my cold knuckles to his mouth, planting a hot kiss over my skin.
“My name is Shaw. You can have this round. I am sure you’ll have another opportunity to beat me.”
“Rasha,” I answer, and my mouth parts as winter air infiltrates my lungs. His stare deepens like he’s frozen in thought. Before I can ask why, he takes both quivers and both bows to the weapons station, leaving me standing awkwardly in front of the cheering crowd.