Книга - The Viking’s Captive Princess

The Viking's Captive Princess
Michelle Styles


‘No one touches my woman. She bears my mark. I claim her. ’ Dangerous warrior Ivar Gunnarson is a man of deeds, not words. With little time for the ideals of love, Ivar seizes what he wants – and Princess Thyre will not become the exception to his rule! Mysterious and enchanting, Thyre rouses Ivar’s desire the moment he lays eyes on her.With Viking factions engaged in a bloody feud, Thyre is yet another captive this hardened warrior conquers – but to be king of Thyre’s heart will entail a battle he has never engaged in before…







‘You will not use this as an excuse to take this land. Your quarrel is with me and me alone.’

Ivar’s insolent gaze raked her form, burning through Thyre’s clothes. Against her will, the memory of what it was like to lie wrapped in his arms welled up inside her. Angrily she damped it down, but not before a knowing gleam appeared in his eyes.



‘I did not hear you complaining last night. What passed between us was your suggestion.’



‘That was different. It ended this morning.’



‘We are far from finished, you and I.’



The back of her neck prickled a warning. She took a half-step backwards, but his hand shot out, clamping around her waist and pulling her forward. His thigh hit her hip. Ruthlessly he lowered his mouth. His tongue delicately traced the outline of her mouth. Her hands came up and buried themselves in his hair, wanting the warmth to continue.



Abruptly he let her go and ran a finger down the side of her face and neck…



‘Mine.’




Author's Note


This is my third story about the jaarls who raided Lindisfarne and what happened to them afterwards. It is a linked book, rather than a continuation of the story. All you need to know is that the book is set at the beginning of the Viking era and the hero is a Viking warrior. The countries or areas of Ranrike and Viken did exist, but the exact nature of their relationship is lost to the mists of time. Because a number of you have written wanting to know about them, several characters from previous books do make appearances, and it was great fun to be able to revisit the world I created in the other two books. Hopefully you will enjoy reading about Thyre and Ivar.



As ever, I love getting reader letters, either via post to Harlequin Mills & Boon, through my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog: http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com




The Viking’s Captive Princess

Michelle Styles











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




About the Author


Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.



Recent novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight)

VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE

AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE

A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE

COMPROMISING MISS MILTON




Prologue


In memory of my brother Eric

(1962–1992),

who first listened to my stories and who believed.




Chapter One


796—on Norway’s border with Sweden

‘Thor’s Hammer, Uncle Ivar, you were right! They are waiting for us. Sitting there. Bold as you like!’

Ivar Gunnarson, jaarl of Viken, glanced towards where his nephew pointed. In the shadow of a rocky island Ranriken dragon boats lurked. Ivar tightened his grip on the steering oar, moving the oar fractionally to the right, and the Sea Witch responded instantly to his command.

‘The Ranrike honour us. Five boats against a single boat. It will make for an interesting race.’

All movement had stopped on the boat and the men had turned towards Ivar, their expressions a mixture of fear mingled with anticipation as their calloused hands lightly rested on the oars. Ivar knew he would prove worthy of their trust. He would see them safely home. Ivar put his trust in things—the strength of his sword arm, the tautness of his sail, the trueness of his aim—rather than the mumblings of priests or the wearing of amulets. Deeds, not words.

‘But, Uncle Ivar,’ Asger said, ‘why are they waiting for us now? Why didn’t they attack us when we were going out to Birka?’

‘They were no danger to us on the way out to Birka, young Asger. Listen to your uncle,’ Erik the Black shouted from where he sat. ‘The Ranriken king wanted us to do the hard work. He desires the spices and silks we are bringing home to Viken, but fears the open sea. Your uncle predicted this for months before the voyage began. Despite all those who proclaimed a supernatural cause for our boats not returning, your uncle said there was another cause. Trust him. He knows the sea and its ways.’

Other oarsmen echoed Erik’s words and Asger’s worried frown disappeared.

‘And now the race with the Ranrike begins.’ Ivar adjusted his grip on the handle of the steering oar as he considered the silks, amber and other precious cargo that filled his hold. More than a king’s ransom if he could make it to the markets of Kaupang. ‘Here is where you learn what it is to be a true Viken warrior and a member of the felag, Asger.’

‘How can we hope to succeed against the boats and the storm?’ Asger wiped his hand across his mouth, his face becoming pinched as he glanced towards the clouds skittering across the sky.

‘We go forward, outrun them. The Sea Witch is the fastest of the Viken ships under sail. She will do anything I ask her.’

‘Anything? Even with those storm crows hanging in the air?’ Asger asked, pointing to the gigantic flock of black-winged birds beginning to circle the boat. ‘You know what they say about them and this passage. The crows are Ran’s messengers, telling her where to cast her net for men’s souls, Uncle Ivar.’

‘Crows are birds. They enjoy the wind. It gives them a chance to spread their wings,’ Ivar said.

‘Oh, I had not thought about them enjoying the wind.’

Ivar concentrated on the waves hitting the boat. Some day when the time for voyages had ended and he could again think about getting a wife, he would like to have a child like Asger. In time, the lad would make an able warrior.

The wind stirred the sea into a froth of white-capped waves and the sound of the crows screamed in his ears. Ivar kept his hand steady on the steering oar. The Sea Witch could hold her own in any contest with the weather. The keel and the rigging had been made to his design; if they held throughout the voyage to Northum-bria two years ago, they would hold now.

‘Erik the Black, did you put new rope on the right rigging?’

The seafarer looked up from where he sat at his oar and scratched the side of his nose. ‘I did. Exactly how you instructed, Ivar.’

‘The Ranrike expect us to make for the nearest inlet. Once there, all they have to do is wait and lurk, putting the stopper in the jug and stealing all our hard-won cargo.’ Ivar paused, allowing the men to absorb his words. Then he raised his fist. ‘I refuse to have that happen. We will outrun this storm and their boats. We will make it back to Kaupang.’

‘Put the sails to the test!’ the crew cried.

‘You read my mind.’ Ivar leant forwards as the wind whipped his dark blonde hair. With impatient fingers, he pushed it back from his face. ‘Erik the Black has said he followed my instructions. The rigging will hold. We raise the sail on my command.’

‘Viken! Viken!’

The Ranrike began their move, gliding forwards. The shouts of the oarsmen echoed across the strait. Within a few breaths, the only avenue of escape would close, but the timing had to be precise. The Ranrike could not be allowed a chance to regroup.

‘The mast creaks in the wind, Ivar!’ Erik the Black shouted. ‘We need to lower the sail soon or risk breaking it.’

‘Keep those ropes taut!’ Ivar eyed the storm clouds in the sky as the Sea Witch strained against his steering oar, ready to fly over the waves to safety. ‘And I want double-quick time when the sail comes down.’

‘At your command.’

The entire crew’s eyes were on him, hands poised on oars, trusting him and his judgement. He held up his hand, waiting as the water slapped against the side of the boat, enjoying the heady feeling of pitting his wits against the world. The storm crows wheeled around the ship one more time. ‘Now!’

The chequered red-and-white sail unfurled, hung for a heartbeat flapping in the wind as the men struggled with the ropes. The shouts from the other boats drowned out the cawing of the crows. Ivar saw the swords glinting, held aloft, poised to strike. One Ranriken boat began to lower its boarding plank, anticipating the moment. Ivar reached forwards, grabbed the end of the rope and tightened it with a few expert twists.

The sail filled and strained against the ropes. The Sea Witch picked up speed, sliding between the two lead Ranrike boats close enough for Ivar to see the astonished expression on the men’s faces as their prey escaped. Ivar saluted the chief Ranrike jaarl, Sigmund Sigmundson, a man who bowed and scraped when they had appeared before King Mysing, the Ranriken king on their way to Birka. Men, not curses, guarded these straits. And men could be defeated.

Ivar turned his face into the wind. All he had to do was steer the boat towards Kaupang and Viken. The coming storm would test him and the men, but they would succeed because of the strength of the keel, the sturdiness of the sail and, above all, the skill with which he navigated.

‘Ivar,’ Erik the Black shouted, ‘one of the Ranrike boats. It is giving chase.’

A wave washed over the prow of the boat, soaking him and his men to the skin. ‘The fun truly begins!’ Ivar called. ‘May the best boat win!’



Thyre, Sainsfrida’s daughter, picked her way amongst the sticks and boards that littered the shore of the hidden Ranriken bay, which was exactly halfway between the Ranriken capital city of Ranhiem and the Viken city of Kaupang.

She lifted the skirt of her apron dress so that it remained free of the seaweed and watery pools. The devastation from last night’s storm was far greater than she had first thought.

‘At least one ship perished in the storm, Dagmar, maybe more. This wood came from somewhere.’

‘Do you think so? I thought the gods just made it appear,’ her half-sister said, her pretty face frowning. She stood just beyond the high-tide mark, keeping her elaborately pleated apron dress pristine. ‘I wish my Sven was here. He would use the wood to build us a proper house. And he would know exactly which ship they had come from as well. He is like that, Sven. Useful. Knowledgeable. My father should have valued his opinion more and then Sven might have stayed, instead of going off to the high pastures to see about felling the king’s trees.’

Thyre carefully composed her features. Dagmar had been infatuated with Sven ever since she had first laid eyes on him earlier this summer. The bold forester had captured her half-sister’s heart with his ready wit, dancing eyes and dazzling smile, despite his lack of money and status. For once, Dagmar had ignored Thyre’s hints and warnings about how a jaarl’s daughter would never be allowed to marry a forester and had kept on finding excuses to meet him. But Thyre knew her stepfather, Ragnfast the Steadfast, had plans for his only child, plans that did not include marrying her off to a man who had few prospects beyond caring for the king’s trees.

‘Your father might think differently. After all, the ships have washed up on his land.’

‘Far will give my Sven the lumber, once Sven asks for my hand in marriage.’ Dagmar shook her ash-blonde locks, which were a complete contrast to Thyre’s own black-as-night hair. Her daytime and night-time daughters, their mother used to say. ‘He will have to. A married woman needs her own hall. And it makes perfect sense to use this wood.’

Thyre raised an eyebrow. She could think of a dozen better uses for the wood than saving it for some dream hall. ‘Sven might wish to choose his own wood. There is a certain something about felling trees of your choosing to make a hall.’

‘Hmm, perhaps you are right…’ Dagmar tapped her finger against her overly generous mouth. ‘Far will keep it for his own use. He never listens to Sven’s ideas about how the farm could be improved.’

Thyre made a show of brushing sand from the piece of wood. She had already heard several of Sven’s ideas for improvement and had thought little of them. Thankfully, just as Ragnfast had heeded her mother’s counsel until her mother’s death eight years ago, Ragnfast always consulted her and followed her advice. And the estate prospered.

‘I know what your father is like.’ Thyre gave a laugh. ‘He will think the timber a gift from the gods. The lower barn has a gaping hole in its roof. It needs to be fixed before the cows come back from pasture. Your father made the appropriate sacrifice for this only last week and will not want to go against the gods’ generous response.’

‘Do you know where the ships have come from?’ Dagmar asked, prodding a piece of timber with a delicate foot. ‘Is it one of ours…a Ranrike? You know I can’t read runes. The scratching jumps about so and never seems to mean the same thing.’

‘If you would pay attention, Dagmar, you could learn. I did. Mother tried to teach you before she died, and I have offered to continue her teaching.’

Dagmar batted her lashes. ‘I would rather be spinning or weaving. There is something so satisfying about creating cloth.’

‘But the daughter of a princess should know how to read runes.’ Thyre pointed to the markings on the board. Some day, she would win the argument and Dagmar would learn to read. ‘See, this bit says Ran and the other bit says hammer. You can do it if you try.’

Dagmar shook her head. ‘It is all far too boring and the runes jump about so. Besides, I will have my older sister to read the runes for me. You will always be here on the steading. I do not know how Far would manage without you and your advice.’

‘Yes, you are right. I have no plans to go anywhere.’ Thyre gave a tight smile. Dagmar might have dreams of marrying her Sven, but Thyre also had dreams of her own. Some day she hoped to meet a man worthy of her love—one who would respect her counsel as well as love her, one who would want her for herself rather than anything she could bring to the marriage. ‘If you ever change your mind, I will be happy to teach you.’

Sometimes Thyre walked out to the headland and looked out at the strait, wondering what lay beyond. It was not as if she hated her life here, but she did wonder what else there might be. Ragnfast and her mother had promised to take her to the Ranrike capital when she was grown. But her mother had died during the winter of her eighth year and Ragnfast had been loathe to leave the farm unattended.

‘Who does the ship belong to, Thyre? You must know from the runes.’

Thyre forced her mind back from the horizon and concentrated.

‘It is one of ours, a Ranriken, but it has not been in the water long. The etchings are too fresh. The shipwreck must have happened last night during the storm.’ Thyre tapped a finger against her lips as a thousand unanswered questions crowded into her brain. Why had the ship been out on the strait? It was most likely one of Sigmund Sigmundson’s. The jaarl had promised to protect the seas from marauding Viken intent on plundering Ranrike. Had they perished, keeping this bay safe? ‘We need to inform Ragnfast immediately.’

Dagmar nodded, accepting Thyre’s verdict. ‘That is unusual. Normally our ships are all safely at harbour when the storm breaks. The Ranrike understand the enormity of Ran’s wrath. How very foolish of the captain. If my Sven had been there, he would have told the captain to stay in his bay.’

‘It happens.’ Thyre put the board down. ‘Ran will have had her net out and will have collected the drowned men.’

‘Drowned men? Dead men!’ Dagmar screwed her face up and Thyre winced. ‘I had not thought of the dead.’

‘I had, and somewhere wives and children will be waiting.’

‘We should go back and tell Far now. He will want to gather the wood and dispose of the bodies.’ Dagmar’s nose wrinkled and she lifted the hem of her skirt, carefully stepping around the piles of seaweed and smashed boards. ‘It is a pity there is no cargo. I could have done with a new dress.’

‘Always the practical one, Dagmar.’ Thyre shook her head in dismay. Dagmar never seemed to consider the future beyond its impact on her, whereas Thyre found herself always asking questions and pondering the reasons why a thing happened.

Dagmar clutched Thyre’s arm, preventing her from going further along the shore. ‘There is a ship on the horizon. Is it one of ours?’

Thyre shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun, impatiently pushing a lock of crow’s wing black hair back from her eyes. She should know the answer without even seeing the ship’s prow. ‘The sail is unusual. Chequered, red and white. Viken, not Ranriken.’

‘How many are there? Is it a raid?’ Dagmar’s voice dropped to a soft whisper as if she feared the unknown boat might hear them. ‘Do we light the beacon?’

‘Not yet, Dagmar. Let Ragnfast be the one to make that decision.’ Silently, Thyre vowed to help him make the right choice.

‘I’m frightened, Thyre.’

Thyre patted Dagmar’s arm. Both of them knew the tales of the Viken raids. The most recent had been the daring raid on the fabulously wealthy monastery in the British Isles. The men who had participated were now fêted as heroes in the north countries, but they were also feared. Who knew where their ambition lay? Before her marriage to Ragnfast, their mother had been a hostage of the Viken king. Thyre had been the result of her mother’s time in Kaupang and the reason for her mother’s subsequent banishment to this far-flung estate.

‘There is only one boat that I can see but there are still things that need to be hidden, even if the Viken are only here for a short time.’

‘But the Viken rarely come here. This inlet is not on any trading route.’ Colour drained from Dagmar’s face. ‘They can’t wish to…’

Thyre grabbed her half-sister’s shoulders and gave her a slight shake. Now was not the time for self-indulgent panic. ‘Dagmar, you must pay attention. It is important. We have no idea of the ship’s intentions, but we have to assume they will be seeking to raid. If we act properly, we may only lose a few sheep or pigs.’

‘You always know what to do, Thyre.’ Dagmar gulped air.

‘It is good to be prepared.’

Thyre’s mind raced. She knew every detail of the plans to survive a raid—where the gold would be hidden, and the grain, where the women would go and hide. The plans had been in place since before her mother died of a fever. A cool head and an even manner solved more problems than a quick temper. Thyre shook her head slightly. The Viken would not find them an easy target, not while she had breath in her body.

‘My mind is a blank. What do I do next?’ Dagmar’s eyes were wide. ‘I just wish Sven was here. He knows all about interpreting omens and what they mean.’

Thyre made a non-committal noise. The other night, the full moon had risen blood red, a potent portent of change and destruction for the Ranrike royal house. According to Ragnfast, the last time such a thing had happened, her mother had died. This time he had immediately ordered several sacrifices so that the farm could remain unharmed, but it appeared the gods were deaf. The Viken had arrived.

‘Will you tell my father without me?’ Dagmar put her hands under her apron. ‘You know how he hates bad news. He will take it better from you. You will give him good counsel. I swear I do not know how you keep everything straight, but you do.’

Thyre drew in a deep breath. ‘You need not worry, Dagmar, I will inform Ragnfast. He always listens to me in these matters.’

The anxious frown between Dagmar’s two perfect eyebrows eased. ‘You are good to me, Thyre. I don’t know what I would do without you. You are always there to ease my fears.’

‘You are my baby sister.’ Thyre held out her hand, curling her long fingers around Dagmar’s slender ones. Dagmar’s hand tightened and she gave a trembling nod. A great fondness for Dagmar welled up inside Thyre. After their mother died, Ragnfast had raged for weeks on end. Thyre had feared for her safety, and she and Dagmar had clung to each other. They might not share as many secrets now, but Dagmar was Thyre’s one true friend and her only beloved sister. ‘Remember when we swore the blood oath?’

‘You are right.’ Dagmar’s face cleared and she gave a brilliant smile. ‘We spilled our blood together after Mor died. I had forgotten that we were once determined to be warriors.’

‘But I remembered.’



‘We greet the Viken with the respect any man should show his neighbour,’ Ragnfast pronounced, using the words Thyre had agreed with him. The household stood on the shoreline waiting, watching the dragon boat draw slowly closer.

The shields still hung on the side of the Viken dragon boat, indicating that its occupants travelled in peace, for the moment. Peace was a fragile thing where Viken warriors were concerned. The tales the jaarl Sigmund Sigmundson had told about Viken treachery the last time he had visited made her blood run cold.

‘The rules of hospitality are very clear in the north and we shall keep them, as we have always done.’

Thyre heaved a sigh of relief.

After his initial explosion of incredulity, Ragnfast had agreed to her plans. Now, all the gold and silver and the furs were hidden; the tapestries had been taken down and stored. The majority of the livestock remained on the summer pasture, so it was possible that the Viken would think theirs was a poor farm, rather than a prosperous estate. Thyre remembered the ruse working once before, when she was a little girl and Dagmar was little more than a babe in arms. Then the Viken had come and her mother had dealt with them, sending Dagmar and Thyre to the hiding place in the woods.

‘But King Mysing decreed all Viken ships are fair plunder…or so the jaarl Sigmund proclaimed the last time he was here,’ cried a voice at the back. ‘What have the Viken ever done for us except burn our lands and take our wives?’

Thyre kept her back resolutely straight. She did not need to see Ragnfast’s face to know how he’d react. He disliked the young jaarl and his ideas about how to solve the problem of the Viken plundering their coastline. He had rejected her first suggestion of lighting the bonfire to alert Sigmund to their potential danger.

‘Sigmund and his cronies may have broken frithe with the Viken King Thorkell, but I haven’t,’ Ragnfast thundered. ‘I remember the days, the days of our old king, King Mysing’s father, when Ranrike prospered and the markets overflowed with goods. Ships sailed to Ranhiem rather than to Birka or Kaupang. Now it is all bloodshed and plunder. My taste for bloodshed vanished a lifetime ago.’

‘Dagmar, are the horns of drink filled properly?’ Thyre asked, seeking to draw Ragnfast back to the present difficulty. Dagmar held up her horn of ale. Thyre was pleased that Ragnfast had agreed to her suggestion of ale rather than mead. It was only one ship, not a fleet. The Viken would understand. He was likely not high enough status to warrant a better drink. And this way he would think them a poor homestead rather than a prosperous estate. ‘The other women and I can follow Dagmar after the Viken captain has the first drink.’

‘It is a good idea, Thyre,’ Ragnfast said. ‘We do not have the men to provoke him. A soft word and a timely fluttered eyelash can do much, as your mother used to say.’

‘Thyre, that is your second-best apron dress,’ Dagmar whispered. ‘And your face is far too solemn. What is there to worry about? Greeting warriors is supposed to be a happy occasion. We should honour them.’

‘I have had more than enough swaggering boasts from Sigmund’s warriors. I wonder if the Viken will be any different? All brawn and very little brain is my educated guess.’ Thyre pasted her smile firmly in place. She remembered her mother’s stories of her time as a hostage in the Viken court, about how fights broke out at the least provocation.

What excuse would the Viken use to destroy this farm? And what would they say if they knew who her natural father was, that her mother had disobeyed the time-honoured custom of children conceived in this way? She had not sent her newborn daughter to be killed by the Viken king and had instead prevailed on Ragnfast to accept her as a true Ranrike woman and member of his family.

‘Thyre, I think I forgot to put the weaving frame away.’ Dagmar’s voice broke through her reverie. ‘Do you think I should go back? That bit of cloth is nearly done and I was particularly proud of the raven pattern.’

‘I already put it away.’ Thyre struggled to keep the doors of her imagination closed. ‘With so many warriors, it would have been in the way. You know how clumsy they are with their feet.’

‘You are a love. You always know just what to do.’ Dagmar patted Thyre’s arm. ‘Think positively. Who knows—you may find a mate amongst the Viken? They are supposed to be wealthy.’

Mate, not husband. The words were unmistakeable and ill-chosen. Thyre made her face into a bland mask. She was well aware of her limited options without Dagmar’s thoughtless reminder. It was unlikely that any warrior would make an offer for her. She had no family, no land, nothing to make a true warrior desire her for a wife.

She gave a wry smile. Ragnfast had held true to his promise to her mother and let her manage the estate, but she also knew he would not provide a dowry. She refused to be just anyone’s concubine. Royal blood ran in her veins. She deserved better. Her mother would have approved of her decision to stay unwed rather than to marry beneath her. In her dreams, Thyre longed to find the one man who would cherish her in the way her mother had been cherished by Ragnfast. Some day, she wanted to meet a man with whom she could exchange loving glances in the way Ragnfast and her mother had exchanged glances. In the end her mother had discovered love with a man who treated her as an equal, rather than as an accessory, a pawn, or a stepping stone to the throne of Ranrike. In order to marry her mother, Ragnfast had taken an oath of loyalty to King My sing, vowing never to claim the throne in his wife’s name, or to permit any of his children to make a claim.

‘I am not looking for anyone. I love it here. It is safe and secure. And if I did, he would have to be more intelligent than those Viken warriors. Can you see the biceps rippling on the leader? Definitely more brawn than brain.’

Dagmar put her hand on Thyre’s sleeve and whispered in her ear. ‘Love can just happen, as it did between Sven and me. One day, I glanced up and there he was, all silhouetted in gold, his cloak slightly drawn back, and I knew that he was the right man for me.’

‘I am not you, Dagmar—in love one day and the next out of it.’

‘You mean the warrior from Gotaland last summer who wanted to buy Far’s lumber and thought to get a better price by seducing his daughter? That was nothing. A pure girlish fantasy. I have quite forgotten why I shed all those tears.’ Dagmar sighed dramatically. ‘I have sworn to be true to Sven. I want him to know that should I bear a child, it will be his.’

A warning twinge went through Thyre. Child? That was fantasy. They knew that Dagmar’s monthly flow had come since Sven had left. Dagmar was given to dramatic statements, but there was something in her eyes. Exactly what had Dagmar sworn to Sven? Dagmar should know that she had no right to swear anything without her father’s consent. It could only lead to heartache. Silently Thyre cursed Sven for being so selfish, and for Dagmar’s fear in telling her father.

Once the Viken had departed, she would discover more about this oath. Unless it was made with Rag-nfast’s consent, it was empty words.

‘The dragon boat has landed! The Viken have arrived!’ The cry echoed up and down the beach.

Thyre pressed her lips together. Dagmar appeared normal enough, smoothing her skirt and biting her lips to make them appear ripe cherry red—all the actions she normally took. Thyre hoped her concerns about Dagmar were just wisps of doubt. Perhaps another warrior would capture her fancy, and her oath to Sven would become a distant and unwelcome memory.

Up close, the Viken dragon boat showed signs of battering from the storm—a broken oar, a battered prow and loose ropes—but nothing major. Not like the poor Ranriken ship whose remains were still scattered over the shore. Had it been hunting this Viken one? And if so, what had this Viken ship done? Which other farms had they attacked? Thyre shifted uneasily, weighing the possibilities, but knowing they had no choice but to offer hospitality.

The Viken warriors splashed ashore. The leader disembarked first, without a helmet or a shield. A gesture of peace, but also of arrogance, Thyre thought. He could have no idea of Ragnfast’s strength, or the defences of the farm.

The Viken’s golden-brown hair shone in the sunlight and, despite the jagged scar running down his right cheek, his face held a certain grace combined with raw power. He looked like a man unafraid to face the future.

His vivid blue gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat, tracing her form. She looked directly back at his face, rather than blushing and looking away as custom demanded. He gave a nod, and turned towards where Ragnfast stood, as if that brief instant had never been.

‘We are grateful for the warm welcome after the rough seas of last night.’ The warrior made an elaborate bow. Ragnfast’s face reddened slightly and his chest puffed out at the courtesy. ‘We are returning to Kaupang after a successful voyage to the markets of Birka. Last night’s storm caused some damage to my trading vessel. It must be repaired before I continue on.’ His steady gaze met Ragnfast’s, and his words sounded more like a thinly disguised command than a polite request. He held out a stick covered in thick runes. ‘We come in peace.’

‘We have no quarrel with the Viken, nor do I seek reassurance from your king.’ Ragnfast barely glanced at the stick before he handed it back. Thyre bit her lip and wished she dared grab it. She highly doubted the truth of the warrior’s words. If they were peaceful, why had the Ranriken ship been wrecked? Sigmund had promised that Ranriken ships only defended. They never attacked the more skilful Viken ships.

‘What is your name, Viken?’ Thyre asked, making sure her voice was firm and clear.

‘Ivar Gunnarson, jaarl of Viken, my lady.’

Thyre froze as the murmur rose behind her. Ivar Gunnarson. Ivar the scarred. Even here in the back waters of Ranrike, they had heard of him and his fellow Viken jaarls who had braved sea serpents to cross the Atlantic and had returned with a vast treasure from Lindisfarne. They were said to be some of the luckiest men alive, basking in Odin and Thor’s favour, Ivar particularly. It was his prowess with the sail and ships that enabled the Viken to cross the sea. And he had fought the Ranrike before, killing Sigmund’s brother. Now he was here, formidable and capable of wrecking the same destruction on her home as he and his companions had on Lindisfarne.

She stifled a gasp as Dagmar began to trip forwards, holding out her horn of ale. Her earlier plan to serve ale to show they were not a prosperous farm had been shoddy and wrong. She should have thought about the pitfalls and how easily a jaarl could take offence.

Sour ale was unlikely to bring about anything but war. It would give them the pretext for burning the farm to the ground. She had to act before the jaarl tasted it, realised the intended insult and destroyed them all.

Thyre raised her hand, signalling the danger to Dagmar, but Dagmar was oblivious to the potential disaster. Her smile became more flirtatious as she held out the horn to the Viken jaarl. Thyre forgot to breathe. Dagmar hadn’t seen her warning.

Ivar Gunnarson took the horn from Dagmar’s grasp and slowly lifted it to his lips.




Chapter Two


Thyre covered her mouth with her hand, unable to do anything but watch in horror.

Everything froze and time slowed.

Thyre wanted to run forwards, but her feet appeared rooted to the spot. A thousand images of burning and destruction rushed through her brain. And the worst was that she knew this mess was her fault. Would he draw his sword? She had to do something. There had to be a way of preventing bloodshed. But her mind refused to work, refused to find the necessary answer.

Just as the horn touched the Viken jaarl’s lips, Rag-nfast reached out and joggled the Viken’s elbow, sending the contents spilling over the ground and the jaarl’s leather boots.

‘Clumsy woman,’ Ragnfast swore, breaking the spell. ‘She should take greater care.’

Thyre’s lungs worked again. Ragnfast had realised the danger and had averted it. They might still be saved if everyone kept their head. She darted forwards and whispered in Dagmar’s ear as Ragnfast began to call upon the gods to forgive this clumsy woman and her unintended insult. At Thyre’s words, Dagmar stopped her furious exclamation and her mouth formed an O.

Thyre gave Dagmar’s shoulder a pat. Her heart stopped racing. The jaarl appeared to accept the incident was an accident, but she would have to speak to Ragnfast about the enthusiasm of his denunciation.

‘My daughter will be suitably punished,’ Ragnfast said after he had finished calling on the entire legion of gods and goddesses to witness his shame.

‘Woe is me, what shall I do?’ Dagmar intoned, getting into the spirit of the thing.

‘Her beauty more than makes up for any clumsiness.’ The jaarl inclined his head, but his hand remained poised over his sword’s hilt.

Thyre fought against the urge to roll her eyes. Dagmar’s golden loveliness captivated every man she encountered. The gods had truly blessed Dagmar at her birth.

She glanced up and the jaarl’s vivid blue gaze caught hers again. His lips curved upwards in an intimate smile as if he knew who was responsible for the mishap. Thyre blinked and the look vanished.

‘Quickly now, daughter, go get some more mead,’ Ragnfast said. ‘Don’t keep the jaarl waiting.’

‘Mead?’ Dagmar squeaked. ‘But I thought—’

‘I will get it, Ragnfast. I know where it has been put,’ Thyre said firmly. ‘The barrels were moved when I supervised the spring cleaning. I would not want to inadvertently give offence to the jaarl.’

Dagmar demurely lowered her lashes. ‘Thyre knows where everything is and I get muddled so easily.’

‘Very well, Thyre, but go quickly. The Viken need their proper refreshment.’ Ragnfast waved his hand.

Thyre walked away from the Viken group, her stomach knotting. Her legs wanted to collapse, but she forced them to move unhurriedly as if nothing was wrong. After all the omens she found it impossible to rid her mind of the thought, ‘destruction was coming’, just as it had once before to her mother. She clearly remembered her mother saying that she must wear her best dress and prettiest smile if ever the Viken came to call again and that it might save her. What had her mother thought when she had first met the Viken king? Had she been attracted to him straight away or had that come later?



Ivar watched the dark-haired woman stalk away, her hips slightly swaying as her skirts revealed shapely ankles and the hint of a well-shaped calf. Deep blue-violet eyes and black as midnight hair contrasted with the light blue-eyed blondeness of the rest of the farmstead. Her heart-shaped face with the dimple in the middle of her chin tugged intriguingly at his memory. There was something about the way she held her head. It reminded him of a woman, a woman who had once held the entire Viken court in the palm of her hand before vanishing into the mists.

The spilling of the ale had been no accident. It had happened on her initiative. He had seen the look pass between the woman and the farmer after he had announced his identity. This woman controlled the farm.

Who exactly was she? The farmer’s wife? Concubine?

He nodded towards the retreating figure. ‘Your daughter?’

‘My daughter, the prettiest woman in Ranrike,’ the farmer said, sweeping an overly obvious blonde forwards, the one to whom his name and reputation apparently had no meaning. The woman winced slightly as her eyes met his scar, but she rapidly recovered as she gave a bobbing curtsy.

‘And the other woman, is she your daughter as well?’ Ivar pointedly looked towards the farmhouse. The woman’s skirt was just visible as she entered the darkened door way. Brisk. Efficient. Had she been the one to decide on ale, to offer the insult? Or had she been the one to realise the danger? Or both?

‘My stepdaughter. My late wife’s child. I took her in after her mother’s death. There was nowhere else for her to go.’ The farmer ran a finger around the neck of his tunic and his eyes flicked everywhere except on Ivar’s face.

Ivar tilted his head to one side, assessing the farmer. There was more to this tale. That woman wielded too much power to be there out of pity or duty. She held herself as if she was at court, rather than standing on a windswept beach. He normally preferred women who lowered their lashes demurely to women who tried to control one. Women like Thorkell’s queen. But there was something in the way her eyes challenged him that made him think again.

‘Indeed?’ Ivar waited for the farmer to continue.

‘The woman has very little to her name, but I hold true to my promise to her late mother.’

‘It is well that you honour your debts. Her mother was a lucky woman to have such a husband. Not everyone would have been as generous.’

‘Thyre’s mother was truly an exceptional woman. It was a sad day for us all when she died. My world has never been the same.’ The farmer shrugged and his eyes became shadowed as he toyed with his leather tunic. ‘I do what I can for her daughter. But my farmstead is poor and we barely manage to eke a living from the soil.’

Ivar glanced up at the gabled longhouse with its weatherbeaten ravens. It was not as fine as Thorkell’s palace, or even Vikar’s estate in the north, but it exuded an air of shabby prosperity at the head of a good bay. Either this farmer was inept or someone was trying to mislead him. But who? Not the farmer. This was the mysterious dark-haired woman’s doing. The farmer had emphasised certain words as if he were reciting a saga, glancing at her from time to time to seek confirmation that he had said the correct words.

Ivar lifted an eyebrow. He despised the game playing and manipulation that women so often resorted to, that his late wife had excelled at. Give him the straightforward struggle with the sea against the intrigue of court any day. He would discover the truth and act accordingly. But the farmer, and more importantly the stepdaughter, would be left in no doubt that the Viken possessed brains as well as strong sword arms.

‘There is a tale that Bose the Dark tells. Perhaps it will help pass the time,’ Asger said, stepping forwards from the line. Ivar frowned, but decided to allow the boy his chance. One day, he would have to meet and trade with men such as this farmer. ‘About how the Swan Princess enchanted the Viken king and he captured her, only for her to fly away one dark night when there was no moon.’

‘Why do you wish to speak of recent history?’ The farmer’s eyes shifted. ‘You will remember the current Ranriken king is her brother. I understand that the Viken allowed her to return home when her brother came to the throne.’

‘I thought the tale was an ancient one,’ Asger replied, hanging his head.

‘Forgive my nephew.’ Ivar stepped between Asger and the farmer, reasserting his control of the situation. ‘He is young and speaks with the curiosity of youth. He has no wish to insult your king or his sister. I, too, remember the last Ranriken Swan Princess and her great beauty.’

‘You know that the Swan Princess died,’ the farmer said. ‘She returned home and sadly died, mourned by those who loved her.’

‘The Viken King Thorkell wept when he heard.’ Ivar forced his shoulders to relax. He had no time to think of shadows and mysteries; he had a ship and a crew to get home. ‘Later, he made a better choice. Asa is truly the jewel of the court.’

The farmer’s eyes shifted and there was growing unease in his stance. ‘It is right and fitting to weep for such a lady. I, too, shed many tears at her funeral pyre.’

Ivar frowned. Had Asger inadvertently discovered a clue to this mystery? ‘A simple farmer like you? Were you at Ranhiem when she died?’

‘I once served with the Ranriken king, her brother,’ the farmer said finally. ‘Those were the days when I did not spend nearly as much time on my farm. But my mind turned against bloodshed and towards the love of my wife. It was she who chose to live here.’

‘Forgive me, I thought you a farmer, but you are a jaarl?’

‘A minor one. Ragnfast the Steadfast they called me. Through my sword arm I gained these lands, but my exploits are long forgotten except by a few.’ Ragnfast made a sweeping bow. ‘You are lucky. A day or two more and I would have been making my annual journey to the Storting and would have been unable to offer hospitality.’

‘As you say…’ Ivar murmured. A tiny nag tugged at his memory. He should know the name, but could not think of the reason. It would come to him. He deftly turned the conversation towards the Sea Witch and its repairs. The damage was minor, but he wanted to make sure the ship would survive if they encountered Sig-mund’s ships again.

Before he could get the reassurance, the dark-haired woman returned, bearing a horn overflowing with mead. Ivar stepped forwards before she could hand the horn to the jaarl’s daughter. The woman’s curves filled out the apron dress and her eyes were nearly level with his, shining with intelligence. There was little to indicate her parentage, but he assumed at least one of her parents was not from Ranrike. She might have the height, but she did not have the ash-blonde looks. Her face was far more exotic with its tilted-up eyes, dimple and cherry-red mouth. The old Ranriken queen had been called the Black Swan on account of her long neck and black hair. Perhaps this woman’s parents had come from her entourage.

‘Mine,’ he said, reaching for the horn before she had a chance to protest and to continue with her game. She would learn not to underestimate his intelligence again.

His fingers touched the woman’s own slender ones and a current like a full-moon tide coursed down his arm. It was raw and elemental. It jolted through him, insistent.

He drained the horn and pushed away the thoughts, concentrating on the drink. Mead. From the rich honey taste he could tell it was fine mead, the sort reserved for the most honoured guests. She had known about the ale and caused the accident. He looked forward to teaching her a lesson about warriors.

‘Very fine.’

‘The barrels had become mixed. I only realised the problem when the ale spilt on the ground,’ she said in her low musical lilt.

Ivar allowed the polite lie, this time. She had realised before that. ‘I trust it will not happen again.’

‘I have solved the problem. Once solved, problems do not recur.’

He made an elaborate bow and started on the next part of the ritual, eager to see what her response would be this time. ‘Thank you for the warm welcome, daughter of the house.’

‘You should have waited and given honour to the true daughter of the house. I am merely a stepdaughter.’

‘I doubt you are merely anything.’

‘You seek to flatter.’

‘A little,’ Ivar admitted. ‘There is nothing wrong with flattery.’

‘I have little use for it,’ she said, the throatiness of the Ranrike evident in her voice. ‘I dislike game playing and banter.’

‘Do you, indeed?’ Ivar lifted his eyebrow. He looked forward to seeing her face when he revealed that he knew of the attempted insult. This woman appeared ready to give the trickster god Loki lessons in manipulation.

‘Do you have no apology for my sister, Ivar Gun-narson? Or perhaps Viken are ignorant of the age-old custom of hospitality that the first drink should be offered by the senior woman of the house?’

‘My thirst overcame me. No disrespect was intended towards your younger half-sister. It was most remiss of me, but then I have spent a great deal of my life at sea.’

Thyre lifted one delicate eyebrow. She tilted her head to one side and assessed the Viken with his strong shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. He was arrogant and overly proud of his masculine appeal, but dangerous. He sought to bend the rules for his own ends. ‘Pretty words did not change the deed. Or the presumption.’

‘What can I do to make amends?’ Ivar bowed low again, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on her mouth. His voice slid like the finest fur over her skin. ‘What is my lady’s dearest desire?’

‘My desires have nothing to do with you.’ Thyre raised her chin and kept her gaze steady. He was a typical warrior, more intent on proving his prowess with his sword arm than observing the customs of civilisation.

‘A man dying of thirst must drink or perish. Sometimes, he takes without asking. There again, is it wrong to wish to live?’ He leant forwards and his hand skimmed her head kerchief. ‘Forgive me, but I saw this trapped in your hair. Perhaps it is a sign from the gods that you are favoured.’

He held out a small crystal pendant. The sun caught it, sending its rainbow rays arching out over the sand.

Ragnfast gave a start and his eyes took on a speculative gleam.

‘It is a pleasant bauble,’ she said, making no move to take it. ‘I am sure Dagmar will appreciate it.’

‘If it will make amends, then she must have it. All the women shall have one.’ He handed it to Dagmar, who blushed and curtsied, before signalling to one of his men who brought forwards more of the crystals, and distributed them to the other women. Thyre resolutely gave hers to Ragnfast. ‘What else can I do to regain your favour?’

‘Stay here as little time as possible. The storms can be bad this time of year.’ Thyre forced her spine to stay as straight as a newly forged sword. A few well-chosen words and trinkets and the entire household were ready to bend over backwards in their welcome. ‘Take advantage of the calm seas and go straight home.’

‘The sea and I are old friends, as our countries once were.’

‘Old friends can quarrel and become enemies.’ Her hand plucked at a fold in her skirt. She needed to end this conversation now while she still had control of the situation. ‘You can see the wreckage of another ship scattered on the shore. The sea can be unforgiving, particularly at this time of year.’

‘The sea seeks to test those who sail on her. My ship passed the test.’

‘Will it keep winning?’

‘Yes. The Sea Witch can outsail any Ranrike ship.’

‘The gods punish arrogance,’ Thyre said with crushing firmness. ‘Surely you have studied the sagas.’

‘It is not arrogance speaking, but skill. There is a difference.’

Thyre held back a quick retort. Ragnfast should be saying these things and making this insufferable man understand that he needed to depart quickly, instead of simply standing there with a speculative expression on his face, his fingers stroking the crystal. ‘Proud words for a man who presumes upon our hospitality.’

‘One who requests what is due to him and who intends to honour his obligations.’

‘There is nothing to interest you here.’ She turned towards Ragnfast and cleared her throat. Now was the moment that Ragnfast was supposed to plead poverty. They had agreed on the wording. ‘Is that not right, Ragnfast? We wish them to leave quickly. There is nothing for the Viken here. We live simply between the forest and the sea. We do not trade in ironstone.’

Ragnfast made a non-committal grunt, and gestured with his hand. ‘The Viken are welcome to repair their ship, Thyre. Long ago, their king allowed me time to repair mine. He may have the same length of time—a day and a night—but no more. You will experience the same bountiful hospitality that I was offered.’

‘Your stepfather has spoken, Thyre. Bountiful hospitality. We must abide by his wishes.’ The Viken jaarl’s eyes twinkled as he made another ironic bow.

‘Ragnfast!’ Thyre said in a furious undertone. ‘You want a proper feast? I thought…’

‘I cannot help but think that Ran sent him here for a purpose.’ Ragnfast toyed with the crystal before placing it in his pouch. ‘We shall slaughter some sheep for you, Viken, as you are clearly a favourite with the Aesir to give such crystals as welcoming gifts. You may use what you need from the estate. Do not let it be said that Ragnfast the Steadfast forgets his obligations.’

Thyre narrowed her eyes. What game was Ragnfast playing at now? If he allowed the Viken to go poking around in the outer buildings, they could discover the silver and gold she had carefully hidden. Buildings could be rebuilt given time, but the loss of the gold and silver would devastate everyone. Her hands curled into impotent fists. All Ragnfast could see was the promise of a departure gift.

‘It is more than I expected.’ Ivar Gunnarson inclined his head. ‘Where can I find the timber and various implements that I will need to repair my ship?’

‘I will help you.’ Thyre said, giving Ragnfast a meaningful glance. ‘The women have been doing cleaning, Ragnfast, and everything is not where it should be.’

Silently she prayed Ragnfast would heed her warning. He gave an elaborate shrug. ‘My stepdaughter continually turns the estate upside down. In that she is like her mother.’

Ragnfast motioned for the others to go. The women made the customary gestures and departed. Thyre kept her back straight, waiting. She could do this. She could keep the Viken from guessing the true extent of their wealth. After all, she had put many warriors in their place before. They all seemed to think one ripple of their biceps and an indulgent smile was enough to drive a woman into their arms.

‘What do you require, Ivar Gunnarson?’ she asked.

‘What do I require?’ The Viken asked with a maddening lift of his brow, and his gaze lingered on the hollow of her throat. ‘It depends on what you are offering.’

‘Equipment to repair your ship and nothing more.’ Thyre rolled her eyes towards the sky at the blatant attempt at flirtation.

He laughed and his hand brushed her elbow. ‘Come with me and I shall show you.’

‘Ships and I are strangers. I need a list. I would not want to be accused of giving you the wrong thing.’ Thyre’s lips became dry and she moved her arm away from the heat radiating from his hand.

He rattled off a long list of items. Thyre began to breathe easier. Everything was easy to obtain and she had clearly made her point. He would have to find another woman to romance. ‘You shall have what you have asked for.’

‘And if I need anything else? How shall I call you? Shall I ask for the dark-haired princess? Or maybe it is the dark-haired witch.’

‘My name is Thyre and I am merely the stepdaughter,’ Thyre said firmly.

‘I will try to remember that. A stepdaughter and not a princess, although this certainly appears to be your kingdom.’

‘It belongs to my stepfather.’

His eyes became cold and for a moment he seemed to search her soul. ‘But you know where everything is kept, including the sour ale.’

Her hand flew to her mouth as the realisation hit—this warrior did possess a brain. He had seen through the ruse. The tiny pain in her head threatened to become a full-blown headache. He had warned her and not Rag-nfast. It was she that he held accountable for the trick. ‘You knew.’

‘I will let it go this time, Thyre, but no more tricks or insults. My men are warriors, not farmers. They tend to act before considering the consequences.’

‘I am well aware of who you are…now. You will be given the proper honour.’

Ivar watched the emotions play on her face. The woman understood what he was saying. Good. Perhaps they could avoid any unpleasant incidents and she would stop treating the Viken like they were ignorant or easily fooled. ‘You should trust me, Thyre. All I want to do is get home. It is a simple enough desire.’

‘We do not trust each other. It is how it has been since before I was born. Ranrike and Viken, there is too much between our two countries.’

‘Will you be sitting at the high table during the feast?’ Ivar tilted his head and examined the way a few tendrils of black hair escaped from her kerchief. ‘Or will you find an excuse to be somewhere else? Why not take a chance and learn that the Viken are like other men?’

Her eyebrows drew together. ‘I shall be there if my stepfather deems it necessary. Dagmar normally serves the important guests. It is a tradition.’

‘Traditions can change. Countries do not always need to be at war.’

‘Not this one.’ She strode off, the skirt of her apron twitching and revealing her slender ankles.

‘Is there some problem?’ Erik the Black called. ‘Your beautiful lady appears to have left in mid-conversation.’

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Ivar watched her, struck again by the vague sense of recognition.

‘She is a proud beauty, that one. She would be a right forest cat in bed.’

A primitive urge to strangle Erik filled Ivar. If he had noticed Thyre’s appeal, others would have as well. ‘She is not for you or the rest of the crew. You may inform the men.’

‘But I take it the other women are…’ Erik raised an eyebrow as a knowing smile spread across his face.

‘If you must…as long as the women are willing and unclaimed. I will have no disputes over a skirt and a melting pair of eyes. We are here to repair the ship and to make sure the mast holds steady until we can get back to Kaupang. A night and a day.’

‘Will it be enough?’ Erik the Black asked. ‘The mast has cracked. Definitely. I heard the split when we were buffeted by the last gust of wind.’

‘Even though there is no sign of it yet, I trust you, Erik. We sail with our backs and our arms. We enjoy the feast and that is all.’

‘As you say, hospitality is there for the taking.’

Ivar regarded Thyre’s retreating back. Her head was proud and erect and her apron dress skimmed her curves. She moved with complete assurance. An appealing package, and one that held the possibility of being explored. She had flirted with him. For the first time in a long time, the beginnings of desire stirred within him. He would tame her. One single night—it could be done. ‘But that one is mine. I will unlock her secrets. No man is to molest her.’



‘Did anything untoward happen in the ceremony while I was away getting the mead, Dagmar?’ Thyre asked before Dagmar even had a chance to sit down on the kitchen bench. ‘Your father appeared distinctly uncomfortable when I returned with the horn of mead and he has gone to make another sacrifice to the gods. We had an agreement about what was to happen, and he broke it.’

‘If Sven had been here, he would have made sure Far held firm. Why did Far offer so much hospitality? Why not fight? They are not that many.’

Thyre held her tongue. Dagmar’s ideas about strategy were never particularly well thought out. This Viken warrior needed to be handled carefully.

‘What else happened, Dagmar?’ Thyre asked.

‘There was some boring old story that one of the Viken tried to recite, but that was all.’ Dagmar made a wry face. ‘You know Far, he sees the boat and thinks of gold and spices. Far is too greedy and short sighted, Sven says.’

‘And the leader, Ivar?’ Thyre kept her gaze on the kitchen fire, aware that her cheeks suddenly burnt. ‘How did he react?’

‘He acted quickly to calm the situation and Far was mollified.’ Dagmar wet her lips and smoothed her skirt. ‘His scar bothers me. To twist his mouth like that. How do you think he acquired it? It looks far too jagged to be a sword mark. But if you don’t see the scar, the rest of him is more than pleasant.’

Thyre stopped the words about Ivar Gunnarson’s broad shoulders and bulging arm muscles just before they tumbled out. The last thing she wanted was Dagmar teasing her about a fancy for a Viken warrior after she’d proclaimed her loathing of them for so many years. ‘As long as I see the back of him tomorrow, all will be well.’

‘You are right, Thyre. His back is by far the best view. A woman could feast on those shoulders.’ Dagmar smacked her lips.

‘Dagmar!’ Thyre put her hands on her hips, but Dagmar looked unrepentant.

‘I prefer a fine face and a gentle manner, so you may have no fears on that score. The Viken jaarl is all yours, if you want him.’

Thyre moved a bowl of cracked barley and took back charge of the conversation. ‘We need to have some other plan, in case the Viken jaarl has another motive. In case he decides to stay beyond the day and a night that he agreed with Ragnfast. This Viken warrior possesses a brain.’

Dagmar raised an eyebrow. ‘You and your plots. You should just allow things to happen.’

Thyre began to pace the floor, hating this feeling of helplessness. ‘The bonfire could be lit. We could send a signal to Sigmund. He promised that if ever we needed help, he would send warriors.’

‘Far would never allow it. It would give the jaarl Sigmund far too much power here. Besides, Sigmund would never reach here in time…and you know what Hilde said about how he hurt her and some of the other maids when he was last here.’

‘The jaarl Sigmund deserves to know that his ship washed up on these shores. If the Viken outstays his welcome, then he should face Ranrike’s mightiest jaarl.’

‘But who will light the fire? Who will face my father’s wrath?’

‘I will. I will take the responsibility.’ Thyre put back her shoulders. It had to be done and no one else could do it. ‘I refuse to stand by and let the Viken win.’

‘You do not even know if they will do anything. The Viken might be honest. He certainly is generous. Or seeking some other excuse?’ Dagmar held up her hand. ‘I too heard what Sigmund said to Far the last time he was here, but Far refused to believe him. He might not like Vikens, but he respects them. And he has beaten them before. He brought our mother back to Ranrike.’

‘That was a long time ago,’ Thyre said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Ragnfast’s courage was well known—steadfast in heart and with his arm. Mor never said anything against him, but I think she would have wanted to keep this farm safe, whatever the cost.’

‘I miss her even though she has been dead for years and years. Sometimes, I can’t really remember her face or her voice. But I do know you take after her far more than I do.’

Thyre reached out her hand and Dagmar’s fingers instantly curled around it.

‘All I know is that I have to try, Dagmar. I will go to the second bonfire and light that one. After the Viken have gone, I will confess to Ragnfast. He will understand my reasoning.’ Thyre paused. ‘It was what Mother would have done—confessed after the fact. It is what she would want us to do.’

‘I hope you are right.’

‘It has to be done. A day and a night are all we have left.’ Thyre raised their clasped hands. ‘We do this in the Swan Princess’s memory. The Viken warriors will not abuse our hospitality. We will prevail and the estate will be safe.’




Chapter Three


‘The bonfire is lit and I saw the answering fire on the other side of the valley,’ Thyre announced to Dagmar on her return. It had taken less time than she had imagined to light the second beacon. Now her being was filled with a quiet exhilaration. How dare he make such statements about women? And look at her with such an arrogant stare? This Viken would learn that she was not to be trifled with. ‘Has there been any trouble?’

‘Nothing other than Hilde spilling the milk as she made eyes at one of the warriors.’

‘Hilde always makes eyes at every warrior,’ Thyre said with a laugh. ‘She thinks the bigger the muscles, the more desirable they are.’

But rather than answering with another comment about Hilde, Dagmar gave a huge sigh and started to wring her hands.

‘Out with it, Dagmar. What have the Viken done?’

‘While I supervised the lighting of the fire in the bathing hut, I kept thinking about what you said earlier. About Mother and how she would want us to do something to protect the estate.’ Dagmar gave a decided nod. ‘Do you mind if I go and look for Sven?’

‘He will not be back yet, Dagmar. He has been away only a few weeks. Is this truly necessary?’ Thyre gestured towards where the table groaned with grain and vegetables. ‘Much remains to be done. I need you here to help me with the cooking.’

‘It seems like for ever since he left.’ Dagmar gave a dramatic sigh. ‘The feast is well in hand. It only looks like a lot of work, but the grain is mostly ground and the turnips are peeled. Then once the cooking starts you will say it is easier if you do it yourself. You always do and the feast always arrives on time. I am doing you a favour. Besides, if Sven has returned, he will be able to rally the foresters to Ragnfast’s standard should the need arise. If you can do something brave by lighting the bonfire, I can do something as well.’

Thyre gritted her teeth. Ever since he had gone, Dagmar had made the daily trek up to the top of the hill to see if she could spy Sven’s horse. After offering to go with her several times and Dagmar finding threadbare excuses why she did not want company, Thyre had stopped bothering. Ever since the advent of Sven, they had drifted apart a little. Dagmar was always keeping little things from her, inconsequential things, but it hurt all the same.

It would be easier in many ways if she just let Dagmar go. At least the sobbing into her pillow at night had stopped. Thyre wished that Dagmar had waited until she was safely married before falling in love. She could not see a happy outcome to this. Ragnfast would never accept the man. He wanted a man with a fortune and a strong sword arm to defend this estate for his daughter. But she would find a way through the tangle after the Viken left.

‘You might be right. A few more men at the feast might help keep fights from starting. Be quick about it, then.’

‘I will be.’ Dagmar gave Thyre a quick kiss on her cheek.

‘You will have to tell your father about Sven some time, Dagmar. He deserves to know. Would you like to practise saying the words with me?’

Dagmar’s eyes slid away from Thyre. ‘I will, but not now. Feasts bring out the worst in him. He starts sampling the ale far too early. Promise me that you won’t say anything either. The last thing we want is for Far to lose his temper and start boasting about how he bested King Thorkell and therefore can beat any man. Remember how the last time he clutched his heart and turned beet red?’

Ice swept through Thyre. ‘I promise to keep silent.’

‘I will be back before the bread is finished. I promise you that. No one will even miss me.’

Thyre watched as Dagmar hurried purposefully from the kitchen. She shook her head, trying to clear it of foreboding. She had done the right thing by lighting the bonfire. She had done the only thing she could. The blood-red moon would be wrong this time. Change was not coming.



The late afternoon air was cool against Ivar’s face after the heat of the bathing hut. The repairs to the ship had gone much as he had foreseen. The storm’s damage was not as great as Erik the Black had feared. The mast appeared sound.

The gods favoured the brave. This bay was perfect for ship building with its stands of straight trees. He would have to open negotiations. Undoubtedly Thyre would find a reason to become involved. There was something about the way she challenged him with her eyes that said she knew more than she was letting on.

He regretted that she had not appeared at the bath hut. Instead a gaggle of simpering and sighing maids had appeared to stoke the fire and make sure it was at the right temperature.

A movement in the shadows caused his muscles to coil. He relaxed slightly when he discerned Thyre’s midnight-black hair. What game was she playing now, scanning the sky as she balanced a basket on her hip? Ivar moved stealthily nearer.

‘Ah, here I discover you, Thyre,’ he said smoothly when he had nearly reached her.

Rather than jumping, she calmly tilted her head to one side. Her tongue wet her lips, making them strawberry red. ‘Were you searching for me?’

‘I have been searching for you or someone like you…for what seems to be a long time.’ Ivar smiled his most seductive smile. Thyre would provide a bit of sport for the evening, but then he would sail away. It was far better than allowing the thrill of the chase to fade and for recriminations to start. No, a single night of pleasure with her suited him.

He waited for the flirtatious sigh.

She lifted her eyebrow and her lips turned down slightly at the corners. ‘Pretty words, Viken. Do I melt at your feet now or can it wait? The feast preoccupies my thoughts for now. Personally, melting has never held much appeal and I’d prefer to postpone the moment if at all possible.’

He drew his brows together, disconcerted. ‘Pretty words for a beautiful woman, but they are sincere. I have been searching for you.’

‘Your life must be very empty, then.’ She tapped her boot against the earth, standing her ground as her hand on her hip emphasised the smallness of her waist.

Ivar schooled his features and waited. He had lost count of how many times he had played these sorts of games. She was tempted despite her protestations. He had forgotten how much fun it could be to spar with a woman, particularly a woman who had brains.

‘You should find something more fulfilling to occupy your time than waiting for women,’ she said.

‘My life is full enough. All I need is the sea and a soft place to lay my head.’ He took a step closer, laid a hand on her shoulder and noticed how her body leant slightly towards him, her breasts brushing his forearm. ‘But right now it is missing something, something I desperately need, something I believe only you can give me.’

‘Desperation can lead to mistakes.’ Her voice had a catch in it. ‘I have learnt to stop searching. You should be content with what you have.’

‘I shall have to give you a reason to start searching again. Discovery can be rewarding.’

Their breath mingled. She would only have to sway slightly and their shoulders would touch. His hands would pull her to him and his mouth would encounter hers. Would it be soft or firm? Ivar wondered.

She moved imperceptibly towards him and he gave into impulse. His mouth touched hers—sweet and firm, inviting.

With an effort Ivar regained control and ended it after the briefest of tastes. She would be the one to beg for the next kiss.

‘Please…’ she whispered and her hands came up to rest on his chest.

‘Please what?’ he inquired softly, but he made no move to recapture her mouth. She had to make the request.

‘Why are you searching? What are you searching for?’

Ivar stepped away and allowed the air to rush between them.

‘At last the question I wanted. Fresh rope for my ship. Two lines broke in the storm.’ He held out his hands and a smile stretched across his face. ‘What else would I be searching for?’

‘Oh, that is…I mean, I had thought…’ Thyre put her hand to her mouth. How had she, who prided herself on avoiding warriors’ seduction, fallen so neatly into his trap? She had allowed him to kiss her. And if he had not stopped…the kiss would have gone on and deepened. She refused to think about what could have happened. Even now, her body longed for his touch. ‘The rope is kept in the outer workshop. One of the thralls can get it for you. You should have said straight away. Then we would not have had to have this conversation.’

‘Is this conversation distasteful?’

‘Unasked for.’ Thyre gave her most crushing nod.

‘Any unasked thoughts are coming from you, Thyre, and not from me.’ He paused, his eyes twinkling like the sea on a summer’s day.

Thyre shifted uncomfortably. Had she been the one? Who had made the first move?

He leant forwards again and lowered his voice to a seductive caress. ‘But you are welcome to share those thoughts with me. Never let it be said that I acted without considering a woman’s wishes. Or forcing her.’

‘No, that is to say…’ Thyre stopped. Her hands touched her mother’s amulet, which hung around her neck, and she regained control. She had more intelligence in her little finger than most warriors possessed in their whole bodies. She gave this warrior’s intelligence far too much credit. He was a man like any other. ‘It is best to be straightforward and honest.’

‘I always am. I find it saves time.’ He tilted his head to one side, assessing her. ‘And you were prepared to offer something else? It is a pity that I was so forthcoming about my request.’

‘I wasn’t prepared to offer anything!’

‘Who are you trying to convince? Me?’ He reached out a finger and traced the outline of her lips in the air above them and instantly they ached as if he had kissed them again. ‘Or you?’

Thyre held her body still, resisting the temptation to turn her face into his palm. Ivar made no move towards her. He simply stood close, waiting, without touching. Each heartbeat seemed to take an age. Thyre knew she should step away, but her feet refused to move.

‘You were mistaken,’ she said evenly. ‘I have no need to convince anyone.’

His face sobered and he stared at her. ‘How long has your stepfather been in this bay?’

Thyre blinked. Ice water crashed through her veins. He thought to confuse her and then to obtain information about the bay and its defences. She should have realised that the Viken jaarl would have a great deal of cunning.

‘Since the king began his reign. He is very proud of his farm. Our goats and sheep are renowned for their wool and milk.’ Thyre gave a careful laugh. She wanted to believe his story about only needing repairs. His ship certainly showed signs of damage, but was there another reason? Who had been chasing whom in that storm? Sigmund had sworn blind that his ships were only for defence, meaning Ivar must have been the attacker.

Had the news of Ragnfast’s quarrel with Sigmund reached Viken ears?

The Viken were notorious in their dealings and she knew how they broke promises. And the worst thing was that she wanted to believe this man. Her blood ran cold when she thought about what he could do before help could arrive.

‘The inlet is a perfect hideaway for ships, ships that could easily prey on undefended trading vessels,’ he continued.

‘Ragnfast does not possess that sort of fleet.’

‘But others in Ranrike do. My king and many of the Viken think the strait is cursed.’

Thyre turned her lips up into a polite smile. Sigmund was doing the Ranrike people a great service. He protected them from raiders, even if Ragnfast refused to let him keep ships in this bay. He would answer the beacon in time. ‘You would have to ask them. I am merely a woman. I have no interest in the sea and trade.’

‘My queen proclaims no interest, but she knows everything that goes on.’

‘I am not a queen,’ Thyre replied quickly. ‘I know little about what happens beyond the confines of this bay and am content to keep that way.’

‘There is a great world out there, ready to be explored. Aren’t you curious?’

Yes, yes, she wanted to scream. She did want to know what lay beyond the next horizon, but it was impossible. Too many people depended on her here. Her responsibilities to Ragnfast and this estate were far too important. Without her, everything might stop. She remembered the melancholy he had slipped into after her mother’s death and how she’d had to make sure that the food was harvested and the animals were slaughtered. And once she had begun, Ragnfast had naturally listened to her counsel, just as he had listened to her mother’s. Little by little she had brought the place back to life.

‘I am content with my life.’ She hated the way the white lies dripped from her mouth. ‘I like the estate. There is always something to be done—the weaving, the cooking. Last week, Beygul, the kitchen cat, went missing and I eventually discovered her, curled up beside an overturned pot of cream. You should have heard Dagmar scream.’

‘You are trying to distract me with your talk of cats. You are not living. You are only existing.’

‘There is more to life than visiting new places.’

‘It is all I desire.’ He leant forwards. ‘But how does a mere farmer acquire such a bay?’

‘Ragnfast is one of the leading Ranriken jaarls, not as great as Sigmund but he still does attend the annual Storting and his views are well respected.’

‘Does he do much trading? The lack of boats is surprising. Forgive my curiosity, but the bay cries out to be used. You have stands of trees. He could build boats.’

‘Ragnfast is no ship builder.’

‘Nor does he keep his buildings in good repair. Your barn on the south side has a leaning wall. It needs support timbers. A simple repair job, which my men have carried out, but it will need to be properly fixed.’

Thyre stared in surprise at the Viken jaarl. He had sorted the problem that she had been attempting to get Ragnfast to do for the past six weeks. ‘Ragnfast is loyal to the Ranriken king, if that is what you are asking. He says there is no need to change protectors. He quarrelled with the Viken when he was younger.’

‘I have never asked him to. The Viken have no quarrel with those who do not attack our ships. We are grateful for your hospitality.’

‘The Ranrike are a peaceful people. We give protection to trading ships, but we have always reserved the right to defend against those who would plunder.’

‘The afternoon is young. There are so many more interesting topics that we can discuss besides the politics—’ He broke off and his body became alert. His entire being seemed focused away from her. ‘There appears to be a light on the hill.’

‘You are seeing things.’ Thyre hated the way her eyes went towards where the beacon was lit. From here, only the faintest trace of smoke curling in the sky could be seen. ‘It is the sun on the rocks.’

His eyes grew hard. ‘Are you certain? I would hate to be caught in a trap.’

‘The Ranrike have no quarrel with you.’

‘We returned from Birka and Permia. Ships were waiting and watching for us. One gave chase in the storm.’

‘And I have seen the results dashed to pieces on the shore. The ship did not sail from here. Ragnfast has nothing to do with such behaviour.’

She waited with the breeze whipping her skirts and cooling her sweat-soaked back. Ivar had to believe her. His blue gaze bore into her and then suddenly his shoulders relaxed slightly.

‘That is reassuring.’ The Viken put his fingers under her elbow, held her for an instant. A warm surge went up her arm. ‘Shall I see you at the feast?’

‘The kitchen needs me.’ Thyre cleared her throat. ‘I supervise the production of the feast. Ragnfast is very particular about the manner in which the meat is prepared.’

‘Then I shall have to hope to see you afterwards.’ His voice dropped to a husky whisper, holding her in its embrace.

Thyre gave her most withering smile, the one which had discouraged all the other warriors. ‘I sincerely doubt that.’

‘As you wish, but the offer is there,’ he murmured and lifted her hand to his lips, burning his mark on her. ‘I keep my promises.’

Thyre regarded her hand. There was no mark, but the skin pulsated with warmth. The sensation would pass in a moment if she kept her calm. ‘I have made my choice and I never deviate from my course.’



‘Did anyone miss me?’ Dagmar asked, breezing into the kitchen as the sun was beginning to sink lower in the west, lighting the sky an intense orangey red. ‘I should never have worn my new boots. I slipped twice and now my toes ache.’

‘I missed you. And your father even came into the kitchen to enquire where you were.’ Thyre pressed her lips together. She had wanted to talk to Dagmar about the Viken and to get her opinion. So far, Ivar appeared to have caused a dozen jobs to be carried out. And his honeyed tones had led Ragnfast to dream of riches. And there was that brief kiss to be considered. What did he really want? ‘This feast means a lot to him.’

‘He came in here? His head has really been turned with the tales of the wealth the Viken jaarls brought back from Lindisfarne. There is more to a man than his fortune.’ Dagmar sat down and took her boot off. She wriggled her toes and started to massage the bottom of her foot. ‘There, you see, I did hurt them. You have no idea of the pain I have gone through.’

Thyre bit back the words telling Dagmar that it had been her choice to go up to the lookout point rather than help with the feast. ‘I did warn you about those boots. They look uncomfortable, no matter how bright and red they might be.’

Dagmar shifted uncomfortably as she reached down to give one of the sleeping cats a stroke. ‘I met a forester. Word has reached him. Sven should be here within days, a week at most. He has said that all the foresters will be sure to be at the feast tonight.’

‘Back so soon?’ Thyre commented, but privately she heaved a sigh of relief. Dagmar had been sensible. Having the foresters there would mean that the Viken would be less likely to start anything.

‘His business was concluded more quickly than he thought.’

‘Your forester knows a great deal about Sven and his plans.’ Thyre tilted her head and tried to assess Dagmar. Dagmar was normally very truthful, but Thyre also knew how badly Dagmar wanted Sven to return. How much was wishful thinking? She shivered slightly, remembering the stories about Ragnfast’s mother and how she had been touched by the gods.

‘Sven set up a system of signals or something.’ Dagmar waved an airy hand. ‘I do not really understand it. But he has kept true to his promise. He alerted me. Now I can prepare. I will be a bride before summer ends.’

‘You will have to be prepared to serve the ale,’ a maid said, coming in and refilling her jug. ‘Ragnfast is like a bear with a sore head. He keeps asking for Dagmar. And the Viken are calling for more ale, more meat.’

Thyre drew in her breath sharply, but the maid looked unrepentant, shifting the jug to the other hip and flouncing out.

Dagmar lifted her chin and her eyes swam with tears. ‘I never shirk my work. It just took longer than I thought.’

‘I will have a word with her,’ Thyre said quietly.

‘Thank you.’ Dagmar reached out her hand and squeezed Thyre’s fingers. ‘Far knows there are more than enough women. He trusts your judgement. It is that maid, Hilde, trying to make trouble. She wanted Sven and now she always tries to undermine me.’

‘You can’t go out like that.’ Thyre brushed some of the brambles off Dagmar’s skirt. ‘You must wash your face and brush your clothes down. I will take the jug around until you are ready. The Viken will not notice the difference.’

‘One might. The Viken jaarl’s eyes seemed to follow you everywhere on the beach.’

‘You are impossible, Dagmar.’ Thyre kept her gaze on Beygul as the cat washed its back legs.

‘You are so much fun to tease, Thyre. As if a warrior could ever get past your sharp tongue…you terrify them.’ Dagmar tucked her head into her chin and batted her eyelashes. ‘I promise to take over once I have changed…if your Viken jaarl will permit it.’

Thyre made an annoyed noise in the back of her throat. ‘And do go quickly. I will expect a favour from you one day.’

Thyre picked up the remaining jug and ignored the temptation to smooth her skirt and pinch her cheeks after Dagmar had scurried from the room. She was doing this to help Dagmar, not because she wanted to see Ivar again.



The banqueting hall strained to hold all the Viken warriors. The central fire combined with the torches to bathe the room in a red glow, disguising the threadbare hangings and fading paint.

Thyre worked efficiently, pouring the ale with a steady hand. She managed to sidestep outstretched arms and ignored the playful remarks from various foresters. Several of the maids appeared less inclined to avoid the hands, giggling and boldly meeting the man’s gaze as they perched first on this knee and then the next. One had an avaricious look in her eyes as she toyed with a Viken’s golden torc. Thyre half-expected her to demand a morning gift before she had even bestowed a kiss. Thyre frowned and gestured towards the other tables. Instantly the woman leapt up and started scurrying about. The other maids quickly started putting more effort into their work as well. Thyre gave a nod as the banqueting hall began to hum with activity and purpose once again.

By the time she had returned to the kitchen, Dagmar had failed to reappear so Thyre refilled her jug with mead and started towards the high table. In the light breeze, the torches fluttered slightly, casting their shadows about. Her breath caught as the crowd parted suddenly, revealing the top table and Ivar. As Ragnfast was absent, Ivar sat in solitary splendour, much as a king might survey his court.

He had changed from his seafaring clothes to the ones he might wear at a market town. His fur-lined cape contrasted with the dark red wool and gold braid of his tunic. The leather trousers were moulded to his thighs and left little to the imagination. A pulsating warmth infused Thyre. His feet were encased in soft kid boots and at his throat he wore an intricate golden torc. Everything about him proclaimed that here was a successful trader, a man used to the trappings of power and wealth and not afraid to use them to his advantage.

Thyre bit her lip, gave her head a little shake and broke the spell. She concentrated on carrying the full jug of mead, rather than letting her attention wander again to the way his hair skimmed his shoulders.

‘You left me until last, my disdainful lady.’ The jaarl’s voice rumbled in her ears. It was liquid and golden like the honey that first emerged from the comb. ‘My horn awaits your nectar.’

‘The mead needs to be served at the correct temperature,’ Thyre replied, resisting the urge to tip the whole lot over his arrogant head. This time, he would not kiss her or trap her into some sort of flirtatious game. ‘I had assumed that you would have been well looked after. My stepfather takes pride in producing a good feast, never allowing the horns to go empty.’

‘He has been remiss.’ His eyes danced as he held up his empty drinking horn. ‘Perhaps the women feel that my men are in more need of nourishment than I. Perhaps they fear the Viken jaarl.’

‘Your comfort is important as you are an honoured guest. Are you hungry?’

‘It depends what is on offer. I can afford to be choosy.’ His eyes deepened slightly.

‘Then you are not starving.’

‘I’m ravenous for the right morsel.’ He took a long sip from his drinking horn. ‘I have learnt the value of patience. Why rush when perfection may happen to pass?’

Thyre licked her dry lips and resisted the urge to smile triumphantly. She would best him at his own game. Leaning forwards, she lowered her voice to a throaty whisper as she filled the horn with the golden liquid. ‘Patience is an admirable quality.’

‘Ah, I wait for the right mead and you wait for…’

‘My supper,’ she said smoothly.

His direct gaze met hers and a half-smile crossed his lips. ‘Very good. You are learning. Practice makes perfect. Shall we cross more than verbal swords?’

Thyre knew that she didn’t want just one night. She wanted more—a life, watching her children grow up and a husband who respected her. The Viken wanted a flirtation. However, she could also not rid herself of the image Dagmar had planted in her mind—the Viken’s limbs entwined with hers, and his soft words rustling against her hair.

Thyre inclined her head. ‘You are here and my stepfather has decreed we feast, so we feast and your horn is filled with ale. There is no time for anything else.’

‘But I should like to learn more about you. What are you waiting for? What dreams haunt your beautiful eyes?’

Thyre resolutely kept her gaze away from his bow-shaped mouth. ‘My opinion means very little except where the production of bread or cloth is concerned. My entire life is here at the farm. I have no wish to look beyond its horizons. Where is your horizon?’

‘The ever-changing sea makes an admirable horizon.’ His gaze narrowed and became focused on her eyes. ‘Is there something? Is there something about my face that offends? You seem to be looking in the middle distance.’

‘No, I am trying to make sure that two of your warriors do not come to blows over Hilde, one of the serving maids.’ Thyre snapped her fingers over her head and gestured. Hilde screwed up her face, but obeyed Thyre’s unspoken command. ‘There, she has gone back to the kitchen and your men are friends again.’

‘You avoided the question.’

Thyre regarded the savage markings on his face more closely. Without them, he would have been breathtaking. She knew Dagmar wanted physical perfection, but she saw the dignity in the scarring. Whatever he had been through must have caused considerable pain. It might even pain him still, but he did not hide away in solitude, he went out and met the world head on. ‘Your scar adds to the character of your face.’

His eyes assessed her. ‘Many find it hard to look on.’

‘What caused the scarring? A sword fight?’

‘An encounter in my youth with a wolf—I objected to becoming his next meal.’

‘Did the wolf survive?’

‘For many years his silver pelt has graced my bed.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘I made sure of that. He died with my sword in his neck.’

‘Then the scars are honourable and should be worn with pride.’ She paused, becoming serious. ‘My mother taught me that it is how a man behaves, and not the way he looks, that matters. She had a disappointment early in her life and it was a lesson she learnt the hard way.’

The very air seemed to crackle between them.

He leant forwards and took the jug from her unresisting hand. ‘Come sit beside me, princess. It has been a long time since a woman has kept me so entertained with just her words.’

‘Why are you calling me princess? What have I done to deserve such a nickname?’ she asked.

‘You command this estate like a princess. Every time I ask for something, the thralls tell me to ask you, rather than Ragnfast or your half-sister.’

‘This farm does not run itself. There are many things that need to be accomplished, regardless of who graces our shores. Ragnfast remains very much in charge. I simply do the women’s work.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘There is nothing simple about running an estate. My sister, Astrid, reminds me of this every time I return home.’

‘I dare say in Viken you like your women to be silently spinning and weaving.’ Thyre gave an arched laugh, remembering some of her mother’s comments about the violence of the Viken court. ‘Silence is not one of my virtues.’

‘In Viken, the queen sits next to the king in the Storting and advises him. I doubt Asa has ever handled a spindle. But my late wife was one such as you describe. My comfort was ever uppermost in her thoughts.’

‘And what does King Thorkell think about it?’ Thyre kept her tone measured. Despite everything, she wanted to ask about the Viken king, the father she had never met and the woman he had finally chosen. Here, at long last, was someone who knew him and knew the sort of man he was. Her mother had said very little when Thyre was young and Thyre treasured every scrap of knowledge. ‘Does he approve? Or does he long for a woman like your late wife?’

‘I doubt he has much choice. Asa is very strong willed, but he respects her counsel. They are well matched.’

Respects her counsel. Thyre risked a breath. She could not imagine her uncle, the current Ranrike king, respecting any woman’s counsel. She could remember her mother complaining bitterly about how her brother, King Mysing, refused to listen to a mere woman’s words. ‘And do the Viken jaarls respect her as well?’

‘You under-estimate Asa at your peril.’ A faint smile touched his lips. ‘I suspect you also should not be underestimated.’

‘A compliment?’

‘If you wish to call it that.’ Ivar leant forwards, his hand closed over hers, holding her in his strong grip. ‘And, my lady, why does Thorkell the Viken king and his queen fascinate you if you have no wish to know what lies beyond the horizon? What else are you hiding from me?’




Chapter Four


Ivar took a long, considering drink of his mead while his other hand kept Thyre by his side. It had been a long time since he had tasted any mead this fine. There was something about this place that made him long to draw back the layers and discover the truth.

‘Curiosity.’ Thyre moved with lightning speed, deftly twisting her wrist and escaping from his grasp. ‘It is always best to know your enemy.’

‘But you do wish to travel, to see what lies beyond the confines of this bay. Why did you lie to me earlier, princess?’

‘My home is here. They need me. And I have no need of that name. There are no princesses in Ranrike.’

‘Once I get to know you better, maybe I will call you something different. Maybe I will even call you friend. I believe it is possible for the Ranrike and the Viken to be friends. Your stepfather’s hospitality has proven it. Perhaps one day you too will visit the Viken court and see its many splendours.’

‘I am not your friend.’

‘But I do not consider you or any other person here to be my enemy. Are you asking for something more than friendship?’

A dimple played in the shadows of his cheek. In the dim light, his scar faded to nothing and Thyre could see only the planes of his face.

‘Deeds prove friendship. Much has passed between our two countries. There is good reason for the mistrust. It was the Viken who…’ Her throat closed around the words and she stopped aghast at what she had been about to reveal.

A few poorly chosen words and he would have taken offence. Or she would have blurted out the truth. How many times had Ragnfast warned her? And what would Ivar do if he knew the truth about her parentage? Would he consider her an abomination for having mixed blood, as her uncle the Ranriken king did? Would he understand why her mother had felt compelled to marry Ragnfast and accept banishment from the court? Or why her mother hid her birth from her true father, King Thorkell?

‘The jaarl Sigmund says that the Viken continually challenge Ranriken ships.’

His eyes turned to cold blue ice. ‘It is Sigmund who has preyed on the Viken shipping, not the other way around. The Viken have no quarrel with the ordinary Ranrike people. We never have.’

‘It is good to hear!’ Ragnfast patted Ivar on the back as he returned to the table. He nodded towards Thyre, motioning for her to continue on with the serving. She looked at him, willing him to mime where he had been. Ragnfast simply smiled, one of his overly pleased smiles. He was up to something, Thyre thought. What sort of mess would she have to clean up…this time?

‘Here we sit, feasting—eating and breaking bread together. This is no place for politics. Tonight is for enjoying tales and relaxing, safe from Ran’s storms.’

‘I could not agree more. I intend to enjoy tonight to the full. It has already provided unexpected opportunities.’ Ivar gave a half-shrug, but his hand burnt against her wrist. And she was intensely aware of the latent power in his shoulders and in his forearms. ‘It is good that your stepdaughter has been attentive. I hardly missed your absence.’

‘Where is Dagmar, Thyre?’ Ragnfast’s eyes narrowed as he toyed with the hilt of his eating knife. ‘Her duties involve serving at the high table. No one appears to have seen her since early afternoon.’

‘Dagmar’s feet pained her. Her new boots pinched her toes.’ Thyre made a little gesture, but Ragnfast’s frown increased and he tapped his fingers against the drinking horn. Her stomach tightened. Ragnfast was determined on something. His greed often overcame his caution. She had seen it happen before when he bargained for a load of timber.

‘Her new boots!’ Ragnfast’s face became a mottled purple.

‘I told her before she had them made that they were too small, but she refused to listen. She wanted everyone to admire them, but now she is forced to sit,’ Thyre said. ‘We decided the Viken would prefer a steady hand and a smiling countenance to one grimacing with pain.’

Thyre kept her back straight and waited. Ragnfast had to believe the pretty tale. She had kept to the truth as much as possible.

Ragnfast gave a non-communicative grunt and waved his hand, dismissing her, and she knew he had accepted her version of the events. ‘Dagmar knows her duty. See that she does it.’

‘Surely there is no harm in having your stepdaughter serving at the high table. Allow your daughter to change her shoes.’ Ivar’s voice was steady, but there was no disguising its commanding tone. ‘Thyre appears to have a ready wit and a steady hand when she pours the drink.’

‘A very steady hand,’ called a Viken from further down the table. ‘Not like this one here.’ He grabbed Hilde about the waist and spun her on to his lap as the ale arched out from the jug. Hilde collapsed against him giggling, obviously enjoying the attention. ‘I had best keep my eyes on her.’

‘And your hands,’ one of the Viken warriors called out. Coarse laughter filled the hall.

Thyre raised an eyebrow and pointed towards the kitchen. Hilde immediately sobered and disentangled herself. Ragnfast took another long draught of mead. Thyre willed her brain to work. What exactly was he up to with that calculating expression?

‘Otto the Red, the farmer in the next steading, has made an offer for Thyre. An excellent match, given her circumstances. He is a very particular man and I have no wish to antagonise my neighbour.’ Ragnfast tapped the side of his nose. ‘I am sure you understand.’

Thyre listened with mounting horror as Ragnfast continued to expand on his subject. Otto the Red? Otto the Toothless who had buried three wives? Surely Ragnfast could not mean this! Why hadn’t he mentioned it before? She thought it understood that she should have some say in who she married. And she wanted to marry a man whom she could respect, rather than one who spent his time bragging about the number of women he had had in his bed. When had her stepfather been planning to mention this scheme? He had to know her feelings about Otto. The last time he had visited, she had mentioned the way his eyes followed her and Ragnfast had promised that it was nothing to worry about.

She swallowed hard and her hands trembled, nearly spilling the mead. Ivar’s hand closed around hers and held the jug steady. ‘Did you know?’ he asked.

Slowly she shook her head. Ivar nodded.

Ragnfast continued on, seeming oblivious to her distress, explaining why this match was advantageous to a woman with few prospects and why he was certain the Viken would not wish to disrupt it. ‘Otto hates the Viken with a passion. Blames them for his son’s death. I told him that his son should not have sailed with Sig-mund’s ship. But it was a bad business, that. Sigmund also lost his brother.’

‘That is hardly the fault of the Viken,’ Ivar remarked.

‘A man must grieve.’

‘I have never denied a man that! But grief must not become revenge.’

‘You will understand that my stepdaughter does not have many opportunities and Otto can give her much.’ Ragnfast put a hand over his heart. ‘I am an old man, and I fear the Norns will cut my life’s thread soon. Thyre’s future must be settled. Her mother would want her daughter safe with a secure future. It is a good offer.’

Thyre’s insides twisted. Give her much. She knew what Ragnfast was saying, but she had no desire to become Otto’s wife. She stared dumbly at the jug. She wanted to protest, but Ragnfast had timed his news perfectly. She could not risk an argument with the Viken present.

‘Serving me at the table does nothing to change her status.’ The Viken’s eyes flashed blue fire. The entire table stilled.

Thyre looked from Ragnfast to Ivar and back again. Had she inadvertently given the Viken jaarl the excuse he was seeking? Would he now take it as an insult and lay the entire community waste? Her heart thumped in her ears. Silently she prayed to any god that might be listening that she was wrong and the Viken meant no harm.

‘What does it matter who serves you, Ivar?’ One of his companions reached over and twitched the jug from her fingers. ‘All cats are alike in the dark, and mead tastes the same out of the horn whoever serves it.’

Ivar gave a laugh, drained his horn and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You are right, Erik the Black, it makes no difference. But I still prefer to see a delicate hand pouring my drink to your hairy one.’

The entire table laughed and the tension ebbed away.

‘I will send Dagmar out, Ragnfast. She is taking far too long.’ Thyre gave a quick curtsy. If she stayed any longer, she would find an excuse to argue with Ragnfast and that would not do anyone any good. After the Viken had left, then she would change his mind about the proposed betrothal. ‘The meat needs to be checked. You do remember what happened when the jaarl Sigmund dined…’

‘How could I forget it?’ Ragnfast lifted his horn. ‘Tell Dagmar to bring out the special mead.’

Ivar watched her depart, her skirts swinging about her ankles, revealing their slender curve. It was obvious that the details of her intended betrothal had come as a shock to Thyre. It was inexcusable of her stepfather. But why had Ragnfast thought to warn him? What sort of game was he playing and why was the woman important?

There was something more to this. Ivar swirled his mead and the honey scent wafted up towards him. He hated secrets, but he would not be here long enough to involve himself in Thyre’s affairs. He had to be practical. There was little he could do for her. And he had to respect her stepfather’s wishes for the moment. As Erik rightly said, if he was in the mood to bed a woman, it did not really matter who it was.

Ivar took a gulp of mead. Erik might believe that, but Ivar knew differently. He no longer needed to prove his manhood by bedding every woman who crossed his path. He wanted something more from a bed partner. Something that Thyre seemed to promise.

‘About my daughter…’ Ragnfast began. He leant forwards and his mead-soaked breath washed over Ivar in an unwelcomed wave. ‘I think you will find her to your liking…She remains free from any betrothal. She would make any jaarl an admirable wife.’

Ivar frowned. The implication was clear. He knew what was expected. He refused to risk insulting his host, but he had no intention of bedding the man’s daughter, let alone wedding the woman. She did not appeal. Tonight belonged to Thyre or no one. ‘I look forward to being served.’

Thyre sat with her knees curled up to her chest, her eyes lost in the dancing flames of the cooking fire. The noise from the feast had died down a little to a dull murmur. Deep within her a great emptiness welled up. Ragnfast had betrothed her to Otto, after all she had done for this estate. In her dreams, she had wanted a love match like her mother had had with Ragnfast, one where the warrior was prepared to sail into the heart of enemy territory to retrieve her. Or failing that, she had thought perhaps she might never marry and would simply run the estate as she had done since she was a child of eight. Her own little kingdom.

There had to be a way around the betrothal, a way to escape the destiny Ragnfast had laid out for her. How much had Otto offered? Or was it that, having given his oath to King Mysing that his wife’s offspring would never trouble him, Ragnfast had at last found a man whom he knew would never lift a sword in her name? Her stepfather should know that she was her uncle’s loyal subject. She had no designs on a throne.

Thyre knew she should be doing other things, such as cleaning up and putting away the utensils, but she seemed to lack the energy for anything except staring at the fire and watching the flames dance.

She should have known something was brewing from the way Ragnfast had acted the last time he had encountered Otto. Ragnfast had always hinted that she could not expect to stay here for ever, but he had only ever said it when he was in drink and then he’d sober up and beg her to stay for ever. And she had assumed that when the time came, he would at least have given her a choice, that he’d let her find her own life’s partner, not simply sell her off as if she were one of his sheep or a length of cloth. The whispers about how his wives had died swirled around him. How he had showed them no respect when they were alive and even less when they were dead. Thyre drew a shaky breath. She refused to give up on her dreams and accept a life of servitude.

She would find a way to outrun her fate. Her life would be something more. She simply had to discover it.

Dagmar stumbled in, wild eyed with her hair about her shoulders. She appeared to be gripped in some sort of trance, muttering and wringing her hands.

‘Is there something wrong, Dagmar?’ Thyre pushed all of her own problems to one side. ‘Has one of the Viken attacked you? Broken the rules of hospitality? Are we going to be burnt in our beds? Should we be hiding the arm rings? Running to the woods and hiding?’

Dagmar muttered something, before Thyre saw her hand close around a knife. She held it out in front of her, the point turned towards her breast.

Thyre blinked twice. Her mouth went dry. She swiped her hand over her eyes and willed the apparition to be gone. But Dagmar still stood there gazing at the knife, muttering, seemingly oblivious to her. ‘Dagmar! Answer me! We can do something!’

Dagmar raised her chin slightly, but ignored Thyre’s outstretched hand. Thyre allowed it to drop to her side.

‘There comes a time in woman’s life when she knows that she has found the one man who will make her happy.’ Dagmar looped her hair behind an ear. ‘I always thought Father would let me make my own choice, but he is determined to make the Viken pay and in gold. He wants me to share the Viken’s bed!’





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/michelle-styles/the-viking-s-captive-princess/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.