Читать книгу The Viking's Captive Princess - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 10

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!’