“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 theheavy 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.
5
RASHA
All the women who were watching the competition, along with Katrine and Joanna, thunder onto the field to congratulate me. Trying to see where Shaw went over their pretty braids and fur covered hoods is impossible, so I succumb to the easement of celebration.
“My heart is still pounding!” Katrine shouts, giving me a good pat on the back.
“You’re playing with fire, going head to head with a man while Harald is watching,” a woman I don’t recognize says in warning. She wears the colors of the Jarl, so I assume she lives here.
“The man I tied with doesn’t seem interested in what Harald thinks.” I keep looking behind us to see if Shaw is still around, and nearly half the women giggle.
“The smith is the strong, silent type,” a woman with brown, loose hair chuckles. “He’s everything Harald is not, but Harald invited him here as the goldsmith for your wedding rings. My name is Enora, and this wet blanket is Ingrid.”
“I am advising her to be cautious. As we all should,” Ingrid whispers, her small frame shivering under a big cloak.
