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A loud laugh punctuated the air and broke the spell. Sayrid rapidly stepped back. She hoped the shadows hid the burn in her cheek. If she’d given in to her impulse and kissed him, he would have recoiled in horror or, worse, laughed at her folly. How could she ever forget for a heartbeat what she was and what people thought of her?
‘Then I wish you every luck with that. I…that is we…should return to the feast. The skald has finished with the Tryfling saga.’
‘Together? Aren’t you afraid people will talk?’ His voice rippled over her skin, doing strange things to her insides.
‘About us?’ She made her voice drip with scorn. ‘Please give me some credit for knowing my reputation. Stealing kisses in the dark with a sea king would be dismissed as far too fantastical to be credited.’
‘Some people are blind.’ He put a firm hand on her back. ‘After you, Shield Maiden.’
The noise fell to a deafening silence as everyone turned to look at them. Several people’s mouths fell open and three women started whispering, putting their heads together and pointing.
One of the more drunken guests called out in jest that Hrolf the Sea-Rider was seeking to bypass the required challenge for her hand. Someone else took up the cry and the word ‘challenge’ reverberated from the rafters.
Sayrid’s cheeks burnt fire. She bared her teeth in a fierce scowl designed to silence the crowd.
When the jesters fell silent, she started towards her place. However Hrolf grabbed her elbow, pinning her to his side.
‘Keep still,’ he commanded.
‘Why? These people are best ignored. I am going to walk back to my seat and forget this ever happened. There will be no challenge.’
Hrolf held up his palm, calling for silence. The room became a sea of expectant faces. ‘There is something I wish to declare.’
Sayrid frowned. Hrolf couldn’t take these jibes seriously. A great hollow opened in the pit of her stomach. She knew what was coming next—humiliation as he made it clear that he had no interest in her. She twisted her elbow.
‘Let me return to my seat in peace.’
His face became hardened planes. ‘You might wish to stay.’
‘Doubtful. You have had your fun, now let me go.’ She took another step towards the high table.
‘Have it your way, but I did warn you.’
‘Go on, Hrolf the Bold. What does a sea king want with this feast?’ Kettil called from the high table where he sat with his wife. ‘What does he want from the Shield Maiden?’
Hrolf reached out and captured her wrist, pulling her towards him. She missed her step and went tumbling against his hard body. ‘I wish to take up Avil the Ironfist’s challenge and fight for the hand of his daughter.’
Sayrid stared at the large Northman in disbelief. She had to have heard wrong. He wanted to marry her? He desired her? What new form of torture was this?
‘Now I know you have had too much ale!’ she gasped out, pulling away from him.
‘There is only one way to win the hand of fair Sayrid,’ someone called out. ‘Fight her.’
He inclined his head, but the traces of an ironic smile touched his lips. ‘Any challenge of this nature needs to be issued in front of everyone. I’d no wish to disrupt proceedings earlier, but I’ve waited long enough. I will win the prize your father promised all those years ago.’
A hard knot formed in the base of her stomach. Her father’s words had been designed to teach her the ultimate lesson in humiliation. Was that what Hrolf desired also? She longed to see his arrogant face humbled.
‘Why? Because your chosen bride preferred another?’ she asked in a furious undertone. ‘Go ahead. Have your boorish joke, laugh about it with your friends and comrades, but I don’t fight with ale-soaked warriors. There is no sport in it.’
‘I assure you I’m quite sober.’ He tapped his fingers together. ‘But you do bring up a good point. You were responsible for me losing a bride. I require retribution. Will you fight and prove yourself worthy of the title or no?’
‘You think you can defeat me?’
‘There is one way to find out.’ His stone-cold eyes met hers. ‘Fight me.’
Sayrid stared at him in disbelief. This could not be happening to her. No man had wanted her. Ever. How many times had her father told her that? How many times had she heard the whispers which followed when she entered a new market town?
‘How do you answer, Sayrid Avildottar? The entire hall waits,’ the jaarl said. ‘A warrior such as Hrolf Eymundsson deserves a proper response when he issues a challenge.’
Sayrid swallowed hard. She hated that her pulse raced at the thought that Hrolf might want her. She rejected the idea instantly as absurd. Standing there, all arrogant in his sea-king finery, he was confident of victory and clearly planned to reject her as a wife after she’d lost. He’d then lay claim to the lands as the better warrior.
