The Viking’s Captive Princess

by Michelle Styles

  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 Sigmund’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 Gunnarson? 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 h
and 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 Ragnfast. 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.’