The Viking's Captive Princess

‘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.’