“Not without a shield.” Regret washed over him when her ecstatic face fell. “Bring one tomorrow, and I’ll meet you here again. So we can spar properly.”
Like a gleeful child, she jumped for joy. And kissed his bearded cheek. “Thank you, Njörd. I can’t wait!”
“In the meantime, we can have our first lesson in hurling a dagger. Do you have one of your own?”
“Just thisknifr,”she said, indicating the small knife encased in a sheath beside her sword.
“Then we’ll use mine.” Njörd removed a blade with a carved wooden handle inscribed with Nordic runes from its casing on his leather belt. “We’ll use that tree trunk as a target,” he said, indicating a large oak a few feet away. He motioned for Elfi to come stand beside him.
“Your form and stance are very important.” He turned her so that she faced the target. “Put your left foot forward, with your right foot back and slightly turned, like this.” He bent down to move her feet, a surge of desire sweeping over him as he gripped the slender, sinewy muscles of her lower legs.
“Now bend your knees, and lean your weight back onto your right foot.” He nodded when she adjusted her position, raising her eyebrows to seek his approval.
“Wrap your fingers around the grip, with the blade sticking straight up. Yes, just like that.” He smiled as she held the knifeproperly. “To help you at first with your balance and aim, point both of your arms toward the target.”
He placed himself behind her, the touch and scent of her supple body stirring his senses and distracting his train of thought. “Keep your left arm pointed at the target to help guide your aim.” He spoke into her left ear as he supported her arm, inhaling the floral fragrance of her hair and the alluring, intoxicating scent of warm woman. “Now lift your right arm up like this,” he explained, raising her limb which held the knife over her head. “Shift your weight forward onto your left foot. Release the blade when your right arm comes down, even with your left.” He guided her through the motions, then stepped back and inclined his head, encouraging her to try.
She perfectly executed the sequence of motions, but when she hurled the knife, the handle—not the blade—hit the wide trunk of the oak. The weapon bounced off the bark and flopped onto the leaf-strewn ground. Elfi groaned in disappointment.
“That’s exactly what I did, too, the first time I threw a knife. It takes a lot of patience and practice to develop accuracy.” He walked across the grass and picked up the weapon, returning it to her. “Try again.”
She fired the knife several more times without much improvement. Once, she did manage to make the blade embed instead of bounce and flop, but it sank into the dirt instead of the tree. “I’ve had enough for today,” she fumed in frustration, blowing a wisp of hair from her frowning face. “But I am looking forward to sparring tomorrow.” She wiped the dirty blade with the hem of her tunic and returned the dagger to Njörd.
“Come, I’ll escort you back to the castle,” he said, sheathing the knife at his waist. “But tomorrow—and every morning from now on—I’ll meet you here in the grove. It wouldn’t be proper for me to go up to your bedroom. At least, not until we’re wed.” He chuckled softly, took hold of her hand, and pulled her close. Discouragement and disappointment reflected inthe irresistible pout of her lush pink lips.
He lifted her chin gently. And swooped down to swallow her lips into his own.
She moaned into his mouth and melted in his arms.
Wrapping his arms around her slender, sinewy back, he drew her against him, pressing his hardened length against her flat stomach. By the gods, he wanted her. But not here, in the dirt. She was a goddess he would worship on a sea of silk. Mustering all of his self-restraint, he released her and backed away, breathless with desire. He exhaled forcefully, shaking his hair over his shoulders, and—taking her by the hand—led her back to the mouth of the cave.
Njörd gathered some mossy material near the roots of an oak and formed them into a small pile. He struck the sharp steel blade of his knife against the flint from his pouch, using the sparks to start a small fire on the floor of the cave. After relighting their torches, he handed one to Elfi and stomped out the flames, smothering the cinders with dirt. Then, torch held high, he escorted her through the secret tunnel, back to the bottom of the castle keep.
At the base of the hidden stairwell leading back up to her chambers, Elfi gazed up at him, delight dancing in her sea goddess eyes. “Thank you for today’s lesson. I’m determined to improve my aim.” She kissed his bristled cheek. The touch of her soft lips sent another wave of desire crashing over him. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
“I’ll go back through the tunnel now, to join Jarl Rikard and the men repairing the castle wall.” He adjusted his breeches and shook his head, tossing back his long dark hair. “Let’s meet tomorrow, at the same time in the sacred grove. So I can join you in thedance of swords. Be sure to bring your shield.” He grinned, lowered his head, and kissed her hand.
“I will. And thank you again for training me. It’s the greatest gift you could ever give.” Eyes filled with wonder, respect, and gratitude, she beamed up at him, then watched as he turned away and entered the tunnel.
Torch held high to light his way, Njörd heard the thud of the metal latch as she bolted the heavy wooden door behind him.
****
Stonecutters chiseled limestone blocks, which the masons stacked atop the castle wall, creating themashrabiyamurder holes along the battlements according to Njörd’s innovative design. Men from the village joined thralls in digging a moat-filled trench between the outer and inner walls surroundingle Château Blanc. Njörd, with a bit of experience building ships in Norway, worked alongside woodcutters to sharpen the spears which they drove into the defensive ditch. Varg, one of Lord Thorfinn’s top men, labored in the early September sun at his side.
Varg is the castle bowyer. He makes six foot longbows for the archers of Étretat. But perhaps he has something smaller…
Njörd decided to take advantage of the short break period provided for workers to eat, drink, and rest. He sat down beside Varg in the shade of an enormous oak and offered him a flagon of ale.
Varg accepted the flask with a grateful grin. He took a long pull, wiped his mustache, and handed it back to Njörd. “Work’s progressing well. We should be finished by the end of the month, in time for Jarl Thorfinn’s return. He’ll be impressed with all the fortifications you suggested. The castle—and the entire city of Étretat—will be much more extensively defended.”
Njörd tore off a chunk of barley bread with his teeth and washed it down with ale. “I’m looking forward to meeting Jarl Thorfinn. He’s well respected by all of his men.”
While Varg chewed on a piece of salted fish, Njörd broached his intended topic. “As the castle bowyer, you must specialize in longbows. But do you have a smaller weapon—the right size for a lad of …say, thirteen winters?”
“I do indeed. Made from the finest yew. Strong heartwood for the belly, supple sapwood for the back. Just like the one the castle bowyer made for me when I was his apprentice. For my thirteenth winter,when I swore my oath of fealty to Jarl Thorfinn. And earned this.” He proudly displayed the elaborately decorated, thick silver arm band which glinted in the golden sun.
“Would you sell the smaller bow to me?” Njörd finished his bread and drained the flagon of ale.
