A Viking's Catch (Book One of the Sogn Series)

Chapter Six

The Vikings feasted, celebrating their new findings of their most recent exploration. They graced their Jarl by bringing him mead and bread, and giving him words of honor for his most valuable treasure: his soon-to-be bride.

Clare was forced to dress in a silken tunic that ended at her ankles. It was gray, shimmering of silver in certain areas of different light. Emeralds graced her neck, and her hair had been left to fall down her back in waves of natural ringlets. Much to her dismay, she was forced to sit next to Roald at the front of the room, in a throne-like chair. It was much too large for her small frame, but her overpowering demeanor and brave confidence filled in those empty spaces. Men looked at her with approval and lust, women with jealousy, but yet she remained unafraid of their consistent stares.

She observed Nafarr, who held a woman in each arm; drink himself until his eyes had become weary. Torsten laughed boisterously with other men at the table, and it seemed that women like Amma and Isibel crowded around at various tables. They were not ladylike, not to Clare's standards, but something about them matched her own charm. They were strong women, they were not weak but unlike the Viking women, Clare held that of both innocence and a strong spirit. She was physically fit as her hips were wide enough to bear children, and her arms toned enough to defend them. There was no doubt that a jarl would desire her to be his wife, especially due to the fact that she was fearful of very little.

"Do you like my people?" Roald had asked, leaning towards her from his chair. His throat was rough from the alcohol that he had consumed, but she knew he was sober. It would take much more mead and ale to make him curve into a drunken state.

"They are," she began hesitantly, her eyes scanning the many men, and even women, who were laughing loudly and swaying from side to side, "Drunk."

It was the truth and even Roald could not deny it, but he chuckled lowly at her response nonetheless, "Do you not wish to drink?"

She shook her head once, her gaze faltering from his people to meet his dark ones, "No, for I wish my judgment to remain unclouded."

Roald nodded in understanding at that, "It does not take much for you to become such a state, does it? Tell me," he continued more gruffly, "do your people not drink what we have here to offer?"

Her glare became heated and she was quick to respond, "My people are wise to not will themselves with such foolishness. If you are implying that I can get drunk as easily as your men, you are wrong to assume such."

Roald looked at her sternly, but at the same time he was struggling to hold in his laughter, "I bet you have never drank a flask of mead in your entire life, so why do you lie to me so?"

Clare's eyebrows furrowed and she leaned closer to him. People caught the little movement of her lips grazing his cheek as she whispered into his ear, "It is because I do not lie."

She leaned back after that, but Roald cupped the back of her head and brought her face back to his own, "Then prove me wrong." He challenged, and for an instant, regret flashed in Clare's eyes. Though, she would not back down from a challenge, for she could not will herself to be teased in the near future for her fear. Clare was proud, and did not want to be defined for her apprehension, and therefor, she abruptly stood up from her chair.

"So be it." She snapped, not missing the widening grin on Roald's face. She took two steps closer to him and stole the cup from his grasp, downing it in mere seconds. The Vikings had calmed, watching their hopeful Jarl's wife throw the cup to the side with a hasty breath, and replying, "Is that good enough for you?"