Читать книгу The Viking's Captive Princess - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 8

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.’