The Viking’s Captive Princess

by Michelle Styles

  ‘You do not know him the way I know him, Thyre. He will use this to crush me.’

  ‘The tide is starting to turn,’ Ivar interrupted, coming to stand between them, preventing any further discussion. ‘This woman comes with me now.’

  Thyre forced her lungs to fill with air, concentrating on the simple act of breathing. Ragnfast’s paranoia about Sigmund Sigmundson would not take away her last ray of hope.

  ‘I have made my choice. I will survive. I promise you that.’

  ‘I did try to protect you, Thyre. The marriage to Otto would have kept you safe,’ Ragnfast said, clasping her arm. ‘But the gods have seen fit to put you on another path.’

  ‘You never consulted me!’ Thyre crossed her arms about her waist and tried to control the ice-cold shivering. She longed to pull the discarded shawl about her shoulders, but that would show the Viken her weakness. She refused to be weak, even though she was heartsick. Even now, Ragnfast didn’t understand her duty towards Dagmar and this steading.

  ‘I have held true to my promise to your mother. You confuse words with deeds. When have I ever done anything wrong to you? When were you mistreated?’ Ragnfast hung his head. ‘You should have honoured your mother’s memory.’

  ‘I honour her memory now. My mother would have approved of my decision. Above all things she loved you, and this land. She taught me my duty,’ Thyre said slowly. She turned towards the glowering Viken. ‘If you will give me leave, Ivar, I will get my trunk.’

  ‘Someone else may get it for you.’ His hand clamped around her wrist. ‘You remain at my side where I can see you.’

  ‘I have said that I will go with you.’ Thyre twisted her wrist and he allowed her to go free. ‘Allow me to take my leave. My half-sister needs to know things. She will need to know how to give the women orders.’

  ‘Why should I wait?’

  ‘I will get your trunk,’ one of the thralls called. ‘It will be here. You saved my daughter last winter with your gruel.’

  The sting of tears pricked Thyre’s eyelids. She missed them all already. Angrily she brushed them away. The Viken would not see her cry.

  ‘If there is ever anything I can do…’ Dagmar whispered, darting forwards. ‘Send word and I will try to help. You just see if I don’t find a way. I will make him go to Ranhiem and tell the Storting. I can be brave like you, Thyre.’

  ‘I will always remember that.’ Thyre gave a watery smile at the thought of Dagmar making Ragnfast do anything.

  ‘The tide turns, Ivar!’ The cry came from the boat.

  ‘I love you, Dagmar,’ Thyre said. ‘Remember that.’

  ‘And I love you as well. We are sisters!’

  ‘Come, concubine. I have tarried long enough.’

  ‘I will go now, Viken. And my name is Thyre, Sainsfrida’s daughter.’

  ‘Your name is whatever I choose to call you. You belong to me now.’

  Chapter Seven

  Thyre sat perched on the small iron-bound trunk, watching the shoreline disappear. Dagmar and the rest had become small specks and then dots on the horizon.

  The outline of the buildings lingered a little while longer. And Thyre felt certain that she had had a glimpse of the serpent gable long after it was possible. She had half-hoped that Sigmund’s ships would round the bend as Ivar’s pulled away from the bay, but the sea remained stubbornly empty.

  Would Sigmund be bothered about her once he did arrive? Would he risk an open breach with the Viken? Or were his words about the beacon system merely an empty promise?

  As the boat left the inlet, it began to toss and pitch. Salt spray washed up over the side, getting into her hair and nostrils. Thyre put out her hands, trying to stay on the trunk.

  Some day, she would see Dagmar again, and they would tell stories and exchange confidences. And she would discover little things, like how many kittens Beygul had had and if Tregul had been in the cream. Little things that had once seemed so inconsequential, but things she knew she would miss. And whatever lay in her future, she knew she would carry the image of her home in her heart for ever. It would remind her that she had done her duty, and that the estate had been saved. They would go on as before—free and happy.

  What had her mother felt when she’d been taken hostage by the Viken? Then her mother had gone as a princess, the jewel of Ranrike. Now her daughter went as little better than a slave.

  She glanced up to where Ivar stood, barking orders as the long ship glided over the waves and the oars began to move as one. Remote and commanding. The master of all he surveyed. But she knew little about him and how he treated his men. What sort of leader was he? He certainly appeared to be everywhere at once, sorting out the problems of cargo shifting and making sure the rowers were in their correct places.

  She hated how, despite everything, her body had remembered the passion and had responded to him on the shore. And she doubted that she could ever be friends with him, not in the same way that her mother had been friends with Ragnfast. She could remember the shared laughter from before her mother’s death, and how Ragnfast had changed afterwards, becoming withdrawn and bitter.

  And what had her mother been to the Viken king? a treacherous voice whispered at the back of her mind. What storm of passion had conceived her? And what would King Thorkell do when he discovered how his former lover had cheated and kept their baby alive?

  Would he forgive or would he demand her death?

  Ivar had said she was under his protection, but did that protection extend to this? She hugged her knees and wished she had planned more carefully before she had gone into Ivar’s bed. What if she conceived? She doubted that Ivar would ever respect her. He probably thought that women occupied a specific niche and that was all.

  Idly she traced the runes on her trunk, naming each one out loud as her mother had taught her. Her head pounded slightly. She did not even want to think about having children with Ivar. Her arms might long to hold a baby, but she had no wish to have that child torn from her. Children belonged to the father. It was the custom, even though her mother had defied it. Her mother had sworn at first to Thyre that she was Ragnfast’s, and simply born early. But one day, shortly before her mother died, she had heard them quarrelling, and her mother begging Ragnfast to look after her daughter. Much later, Ragnfast had told her the story about how he had rescued her mother from Viken, and how the new king of Ranrike, her brother, had threatened to kill her for being pregnant with the Viken king’s child. It was only because she accepted banishment for herself and her children, along with Ragnfast, that King Mysing had spared her life.

  ‘Do you know runes?’ a young boy asked, leaning on his oars and looking over at where she sat. ‘Come and speak with me.’

  Thyre started and then moved towards the lad, hand over hand, clinging to the side until she sank down on the bench beside him. His light brown hair tumbled about his forehead and he had the look of Ivar in the shape of his chin and shoulders.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said carefully, keeping her voice neutral. ‘I learnt when I was a little girl. My mother also made me learn lots of poetry.’

  ‘I want to carve my mother’s name on a comb.’

  Thyre gave a small smile. Wanting to carve his mother’s name was something she could understand, a little action. Maybe the Ranriken and Viken were not so different after all. ‘It is an easy thing to carve a name, if you concentrate hard.’

  ‘Is it? I keep making mistakes with my runes.’ He gave a rueful smile and half-shrug. ‘I need to learn them, or else I will never be a great warrior like my uncle.’

  ‘Is your uncle…?’ Thyre let her voice trail away as she nodded towards where Ivar sat, hands on the oar, muscles bulging as he brought the oar back another time. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forearms, making them appear sculpted and powerful, almost as if they belonged to Thor himself.

  ‘Ivar is my uncle. He and the jaarl Vikar Hrutson saved us last summer when we were attacked. He promised that I could come on his next
voyage, no matter what my mother said about it being far too dangerous.’ The boy raised his chin. ‘And my uncle keeps his promises. When I grow up, I want to be like him and sail over the seas as the leader of a mighty felag.’

  ‘It is good to keep your promises,’ Thyre replied slowly. She watched where Ivar took his turn at the oars, exchanging jokes with his men. She doubted if any of the Ranrike jaarls would do such a menial task. Even Ragnfast boasted that he had never pulled at the oars. But she could see the respect in the men’s faces that Ivar was willing to take his turn. ‘Why did you get your mother a comb?’

  ‘I promised her something for her hair. I want it to say that it belongs to Astrid. The last one she had, someone stole from the bath house when she visited Kaupang to see me off. You should have heard her complaining!’

  ‘Where did you get the comb?’

  ‘In Birka. Uncle Ivar advanced me part of my share from the felag and he helped me bargain for it.’ He scratched his nose. ‘My uncle says that I am spelling comb wrong, but I don’t believe him.’

  ‘Does your uncle know his runes?’ Thyre leant forwards, eager to learn more about the man.

  ‘Enough to get by.’ The boy gave a careless shrug. ‘He has spent most of his life fighting and trading. Building ships. But he says that a true Viken must be able to read runes and figure, so you won’t be cheated.’

  ‘And the women of Viken…’

  ‘Some do, but my mother can only work out her name.’ His face wrinkled with concentration. ‘I think Vikar’s new wife can read runes, and maybe my aunt could before she died. The Queen can. She even composes poetry.’

  ‘Your Uncle Ivar’s wife,’ Thyre said slowly, a cold creeping over her. She had to know. ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Aunt Edda died a few years ago, before he left for Lindisfarne. I know very little about her except my mother thought her weak as cow’s milk in winter.’ He tilted his head to one side and his blue eyes assessed her. ‘He has never had a concubine before. I thought he preferred blondes to dark-haired women. It is the fashion to be blonde. My mother says that Queen Asa dyes her hair.’

  ‘You will have to ask your uncle why he compelled me to be here.’

  The lad ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘Nobody asks my uncle anything. He tells them.’

  ‘I have discovered.’ Thyre gave a rueful shrug. ‘But then I did what I had to.’

  The boy’s merry laugh rang out. ‘You remind me of my mother.’

  ‘I can help you with the runes…if you wish.’ Thyre leant forwards. ‘It will help me pass the time. I have never been on board ship before and the rocking unnerves me.’

  ‘I would like that.’ The boy gave a shy smile.

  Thyre breathed a little easier. She felt like she had made a friend. Or at least someone she could help, instead of missing home and wondering what Dagmar and Ragnfast were doing.

  ‘Asger! The horn sounded! You pull the oar at the second blast. Pay attention to when it is your turn, if you wish to become a Viken warrior!’

  The boy flushed and glanced at the oar. ‘I was too busy talking.’

  ‘We have spoken about this before. You are to be ready. The felag is only as strong as those who are in it.’

  ‘I forgot…’

  ‘Remember next time or it will go worse for you.’

  ‘Ivar, your nephew did not mean any harm.’ Thyre stood and faced Ivar. ‘He wanted to carve his mother’s name on the comb. If anyone is at fault, it is me. I distracted him.’

  ‘You will not do my nephew any favours. His mother already keeps him wrapped in sheep’s wool.’ Ivar’s hand pulled her away from where Asger now laboured with his oar. ‘He will have to play a warrior’s part soon and he must not fall into bad habits. You should stay where I told you. This is not a pleasure outing.’

  ‘It is one of my more infuriating habits—having a mind of my own.’ Thyre forced her voice to be sweetness and light and took a perverse pleasure in Ivar’s furious glance. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No,’ he said, through gritted teeth. Primitive anger surged through Ivar as he looked down at her unrepentant face. Even after what had happened to her this morning, this woman still underestimated his intelligence. This time he would keep control of his temper. On the beach, when her stepfather had used the word ‘soiled’, Ivar’s control had snapped. It had been years since he had last lost his temper. And this time, it was all down to the maddening woman who stood before him, chin tilted upwards and eyes blazing, daring him to go on. ‘Asger is a full member of this felag and must pull his weight.’

  ‘Am I a member of your felag now? Will you force me to take my turn at the oars?’ Her eyes flashed fire.

  ‘Women can never be members of a felag. You will have other duties.’

  She wrapped her arms about her waist, but not before her tongue had flicked over her lips. ‘You will no doubt inform me what they are. Very well, I will do them as long as I deem them appropriate. I came on this voyage to save lives, not to give you any pleasure. It was my duty to save my people.’

  Ivar clung on to his temper. She lied. She had experienced pleasure with him. Her response was far from feigned. But if she wanted to play games, she would learn. Today, he hoped her people had learnt a lesson that they would not soon forget. No one played him for a fool. ‘You will not cause a disruption on my ship. Mischief-makers are dealt with…severely.’

  ‘I was helping your nephew with his present for his mother.’ Thyre put her hand to her throat and her eyes grew wide. Ivar’s insides twisted. He was no monster. He had never forced a woman. This morning, he had thought to save her. It made her rejection all the worse. Ivar pushed his confused thoughts away and contented himself with glaring at her as her voice faltered. ‘He wanted to know the correct runes. He bought his mother a comb in Birka. We were having a pleasant conversation. I did not think.’

  ‘That boy is a member of my crew. He has other duties than amusing my concubine.’

  ‘And whose job is that?’ she asked.

  ‘Mine, when I deem it fit.’

  She opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound came out. A sense of satisfaction filled Ivar. She would learn. He leant forwards so that his lips were inches from hers. A ghost of a caress. ‘Remember that.’

  She turned her face away, but not before he saw her mouth tremble. Her pretended indifference would cease in time. ‘It is not in my nature to be idle. I wanted to assist him when he asked. He wants to be a great warrior and so must learn his runes.’

  ‘And you know runes? Very few women know how to read runes.’

  ‘My mother taught me.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Women are capable of reading when they try. I have tried to teach Dagmar, but she refuses. Reading runes is important. Brains can often outwit brawn.’

  ‘You are a puzzle, Thyre. Why would Ragnfast wish to give you to someone you hated when you are obviously such an asset to the farm?’

  ‘You would have to ask Ragnfast,’ she replied, her voice high and tight. ‘But I had no plans to marry Otto. In the end, Ragnfast would have come around to my way of thinking. I did not intend to tell him of our time together.’

  ‘Why did you speak to Asger and offer to show him the runes? He is a loyal nephew. He will not help you escape.’

  ‘He is a boy. He misses his mother and wants her to think well of him. He certainly thinks well of you.’ Her jaw became set and her fingers twisted the folds of her apron dress. ‘Was there any harm in that?’

  ‘I have no wish for Asger or any of my men to become counters in a game of tafl. Do not play games with me and expect to win, Thyre. You will be my concubine for as long as I need you.’

  ‘Was I playing a game?’ The wind whipped several strands of her hair, pushing it across her face. ‘If so, then I lost. I lost everything today, Ivar Gunnarson. What more can you take from me?’

  ‘It is an intriguing suggestion. I prefer my women to
give.’ Ivar concentrated on the creaking mast rather than on her white throat and its mark. Seduction had no place on a boat. ‘I do not have time to watch out for you. I have a ship to command. Men’s lives depend on me. Your life depends on me.’

  ‘I have no intention of dying. That would be far too easy. I intend to plague the life out of you.’ She smiled sweetly.

  ‘I wonder who will tire of the game first.’ His hand caught a lock of her hair and twisted it between his fingers. ‘You made me lose my temper once, Thyre. You will not make me do so again.’

  ‘But why did you bring me? Surely you have no need of me—a woman on board ship,’ Thyre protested, looking up at him. The way the wind pushed his dark blonde hair across his forehead made her fingers long to push it back. After all he had done to her, how could she even begin to think about the way his lips moved against hers or how soft his skin was? She shook her head to clear it. Was she under some sort of spell? She wished Dagmar was there to ask. Dagmar seemed blessed with the innate knowledge of how men reacted.

  He stopped. A half-smile appeared on his face as he stared intently at the mark on her neck. ‘After the night we spent together I would say there was plenty of need.’

  ‘It was never supposed to be repeated.’ Thyre started to draw the edges of her shawl together. His eyes gleamed and she forced her hands to go back to her sides. ‘One night’s madness. That is all it was.’

  ‘And why were you there? The truth, this time.’ His fingers reached out and grabbed her chin, held her in a pincer-like grip. ‘Some day you will tell me all your secrets.’

  She moved her head and he released her. She struggled to take a steady breath. ‘That will be the day after they cease to have meaning.’

  He gave a crooked smile and a shrug, but his eyes flared and their breath mingled. ‘You will share my bed for as long as I wish it.’

  He rubbed his thumb across her lips, causing a deep ache to fill her.