Page 22 of Hungry Like a Wolf (Vikings Rock #3)

“W e will have a festival,” Ravn announced the next day in the village square.

“What kind?” Tyr the boatbuilder asked.

“A festival of skill, with weapons.” Ravn pointed at the beach; the tide was on its way out. “We will find out who is the best shot with a bow and arrow, a spear, and a knife. The winner in each will win three gold coins and feast with myself and the queen at sundown.”

“I will fire my arrow?” Thormod asked, slipping his hand into his father’s.

“Not this time, son, but I will help you practice later.” He stooped and picked Thormod up, settling him against his side. “Joseph, organize the targets, and Erin, ensure the feast will be spectacular for those who are triumphant.”

“I’ll throw a spear,” Carmel said, tipping her head and studying her husband. At home, her father would have refused such a thing, despite her having the necessary skills. Women didn’t compete with men; they were not as good, so what was the point?

“Excellent idea.” Ravn grinned and wafted his hand in the air. “Shield-maidens and queens may also compete in our festival.”

“And what is the festival to celebrate?” Erin asked.

“My beautiful, giving wife who has traveled land and sea to rule the good people of Drangar at my side.” He cupped Carmel’s cheek and set a kiss on her lips.

A cheer went up, the gathered crowd clearly enjoying their king’s light mood and appreciating the reason why they were having a festival.

“Come,” Tyr said to Joseph. “I will help with the targets.”

The two men wandered off, gesturing as though planning on the construction.

“There are more people in Drangar who speak my language than I first knew,” Carmel said to Ravn.

He slipped his hand around her waist and surveyed the horizon out on the fjord. “It is Joseph’s doing. He might be Christian, but he is wise and he has told us that in order to trade with other lands we sail to, in order to conquer, we must speak a common language with those we meet.”

“That is true.”

“My father and his men sailed east a lot and learned the language of the people there. Many here still speak it. But Haakon and I were always more interested in sailing west.”

“Why?” She picked up Thormod’s small catapult that he’d dropped and passed it to him with a smile.

“We’d grown bored of the spoils of amber, furs, and autumn herring. We wanted more… We knew there was more.”

“Gold crosses, brass candlesticks, silver coins.” She raised her eyebrows.

“And beautiful women who know instinctively know how to please their husbands in bed.”

“Shh.” Her eyes widened and she nodded at Thormod.

Ravn laughed. “Do not fear. Viking boys learn about sex from a young age. He will take his first woman at thirteen; I will give her to him as a gift.”

“What? But…”

“I will choose an older woman from the village, beautiful, ja , but older and experienced. It is as important as the day he gets his arm ring.”

“Ravn, I really think that we…”

“You will not change all of my ways,” Ravn said. “And I think you’ll agree that the fact my father did that for me at thirteen pleases you very much. I was skilled last night, ja ? It was not the blind leading the blind. I’d had a good teacher.”

She stared into his flashing, blue eyes; the reflection of the fjord filled them. The image of her husband, at only thirteen, bedding an older village woman wasn’t one she wanted in her head. “But Thormod should wait for the sanctity of marriage… I…”

“Marriage means many of the same things to us, but also some different.” He kissed her again. “And I think you’ll agree, so does being a woman here in Drangar.” He raised his eyes knowingly.

Thormod pointed to the beach. “Look, Father. Look.”

Tyr and Joseph were piling up two straw bales and beside them sat a large, round target, wooden and covered in white linen, with a red center.

The village men and women were gathering and three groups had partitioned themselves off. One held bows and arrows, another spears, and a final group clutched knives.

“Ah, good.” Ravn set Thormod down. “We are nearly ready for our festival.”

Carmel took the little boy’s hand; she didn’t want him running in front of a target if weapons were about to start flying through the air.

Along the pier, villagers lit fire baskets, and passed around horns of mead.

Carmel studied the villagers, laughing and talking, and the children and animals milling about. They seemed happy, content, and at peace with each other and their strange gods.

And right now, in this strange land, she felt safe. She felt cared for and respected. Helga even dropped a small, respectful bob as she walked past holding a tray of food. There was no jealousy or malice there, that much was clear.

And a relief.

Ravn had offered her a choice at three years, but at this moment in time, that didn’t feel long enough. Carmel wanted these feelings for the rest of her life. Love. Serenity. Satisfaction.

But she wouldn’t worry about the future now. Today was today…the present.

A few hours later, all was set and the people gathered.

“Let the tournament begin,” Ravn bellowed as he raised his arms in the air.

The crowd hushed.

“As your king, your ruler, and a skilled warrior, I will be judge.” He held out his hand to Joseph, who passed him a horn of mead. “And I wish you all the luck of the gods.” He paused, then repeated the words in his own language.

A cheer went up.

“Archers, begin.”

“I want to be archer,” Thormod said, tugging on Carmel’s gown.

“Do you?” She reached for him and he happily went into her arms and settled on her hip.

“ Ja .” He took a lock of her hair and wound it around his finger, studying it. “Thormod archer.”

“Then make sure to watch these skilled Vikings and see how they do it. Then when you are a big boy, you will be one of them.”

“ Ja . Thormod watch.” He turned, his face serious and his eyes wide.

Carmel had the urge to kiss his soft, round cheek but resisted. She’d only just come into his life, but she hoped this would be the start of a close bond between them. He really was very sweet.

The first archer lined up his arrow and pulled it back in the string of his long bow. He was a tall, lean, young man with hair in a long plait. His tunic was blue and his pants and boots black. In his earlobe he wore a long golden chain that looped up to the top of his ear and pierced again.

He blew out a breath, seemed to steady himself, and then fired.

It hit the target, but not in the red.

“Ah, more practice for you, Bjorn. But you’ll get there,” Ravn called. “Next.”

The second contestant was an older man, shorter, fatter, and with a thick, grizzly beard. He took aim, fired, and hit the target dead center.

“ Ja , ja ,” Thormod said, bouncing in Carmel’s arms.

The crowd cheered.

“Well done.” Ravn nodded at him. “Next.”

The final archer took his place, prepared, and fired. His shot was good but sat on the edge of the red.

“And the winner is Daneson,” Ravn said, gesturing to the older Viking. “The queen and I look forward to feasting with you and your prize of three gold coins will be on your plate awaiting your arrival.”

“I thank you.” Daneson grinned.

“And onto the knives,” Ravn said.

Carmel took a step backward as a huge Viking, minus his tunic, stepped onto the sand spinning a lethal tooth-edged knife in the air and catching it. She wouldn’t like to meet him in battle, even with her best spear.

“Ah, we have my good friend Sindri,” Ravn said, clasping him on the shoulder. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Sindri kind of growled and turned to the target. He gripped the handle of his knife as though still testing the weight of it, rocked back on his left heel, and then hurled it.

It flashed as it pierced the air and then slid almost silently into the center of the target.

The crowd roared, clearly impressed.

Sindri punched the air and beamed, showing a distinct lack of teeth.

Thormod clapped excitedly.

“He’s good, right?” Ravn said to her. “Been at my side in many a battle.”

“That sounds like the right side of him to be on,” Carmel said.

Ravn chuckled then turned to watch the next knife thrower.

It was a woman and her blade was long and shone brightly, the handle made of bone. She didn’t do any of Sindir’s showmanship, simply stood in his footprints in the sand, took aim, and threw. Her knife spun once before landing on target.

Again, the crowd cheered.

She nodded once at them, then walked to her knife, snatched it up again, and re-sheathed it on her belt.

“Who is that?” Carmel asked Ravn.

“Bodil, Sindir’s little sister. He taught her that. He’ll be pissed now she’s drawn level with him.”

“If they both win, can they both dine with us?”

“Would you like that?”

“Aye, I’d enjoy the company of a shield-maiden, if that is what she is.”

“Most definitely that is what Bodil is. She has been to almost as many battles as I.”

“So she can dine with us?”

“If it would please the queen, then ja , she will dine with us.” Ravn smiled then clapped as another knife thrower hit the target, but not the red, the white.

“And the joint winners are Sindri and Bodil. You will both feast with your king and queen this eve and receive three gold coins each.” Ravn held up his hands as the crowd cheered and several slapped Sindri on his bare shoulders.

Bodil looked right at Carmel, her gaze unwavering.

Carmel held it, though she couldn’t decide if it was hostile or curious.

She hoped for curious.

“Now for the spear throwing,” Ravn said when the crowd quieted. “Who is to go first?”

“I will.” A thick-shouldered man stepped forward with a thin fur draped over his tunic that was held in place with a large, brass brooch. He held a long, dark wooden spear with a highly polished pointed steel head.

He took his position farther back from the knife throwers, farther back from the archers too. The crowd cleared some room for him as he drew a line in the sand with the toe of his boot and then paced back some more.