The Viking’s Captive Princess

by Michelle Styles

  ‘I am content with my life.’ She hated the way the white lies dripped from her mouth. ‘I like the estate. There is always something to be done—the weaving, the cooking. Last week, Beygul, the kitchen cat, went missing and I eventually discovered her, curled up beside an overturned pot of cream. You should have heard Dagmar scream.’

  ‘You are trying to distract me with your talk of cats. You are not living. You are only existing.’

  ‘There is more to life than visiting new places.’

  ‘It is all I desire.’ He leant forwards. ‘But how does a mere farmer acquire such a bay?’

  ‘Ragnfast is one of the leading Ranriken jaarls, not as great as Sigmund but he still does attend the annual Storting and his views are well respected.’

  ‘Does he do much trading? The lack of boats is surprising. Forgive my curiosity, but the bay cries out to be used. You have stands of trees. He could build boats.’

  ‘Ragnfast is no ship builder.’

  ‘Nor does he keep his buildings in good repair. Your barn on the south side has a leaning wall. It needs support timbers. A simple repair job, which my men have carried out, but it will need to be properly fixed.’

  Thyre stared in surprise at the Viken jaarl. He had sorted the problem that she had been attempting to get Ragnfast to do for the past six weeks. ‘Ragnfast is loyal to the Ranriken king, if that is what you are asking. He says there is no need to change protectors. He quarrelled with the Viken when he was younger.’

  ‘I have never asked him to. The Viken have no quarrel with those who do not attack our ships. We are grateful for your hospitality.’

  ‘The Ranrike are a peaceful people. We give protection to trading ships, but we have always reserved the right to defend against those who would plunder.’

  ‘The afternoon is young. There are so many more interesting topics that we can discuss besides the politics—’ He broke off and his body became alert. His entire being seemed focused away from her. ‘There appears to be a light on the hill.’

  ‘You are seeing things.’ Thyre hated the way her eyes went towards where the beacon was lit. From here, only the faintest trace of smoke curling in the sky could be seen. ‘It is the sun on the rocks.’

  His eyes grew hard. ‘Are you certain? I would hate to be caught in a trap.’

  ‘The Ranrike have no quarrel with you.’

  ‘We returned from Birka and Permia. Ships were waiting and watching for us. One gave chase in the storm.’

  ‘And I have seen the results dashed to pieces on the shore. The ship did not sail from here. Ragnfast has nothing to do with such behaviour.’

  She waited with the breeze whipping her skirts and cooling her sweat-soaked back. Ivar had to believe her. His blue gaze bore into her and then suddenly his shoulders relaxed slightly.

  ‘That is reassuring.’ The Viken put his fingers under her elbow, held her for an instant. A warm surge went up her arm. ‘Shall I see you at the feast?’

  ‘The kitchen needs me.’ Thyre cleared her throat. ‘I supervise the production of the feast. Ragnfast is very particular about the manner in which the meat is prepared.’

  ‘Then I shall have to hope to see you afterwards.’ His voice dropped to a husky whisper, holding her in its embrace.

  Thyre gave her most withering smile, the one which had discouraged all the other warriors. ‘I sincerely doubt that.’

  ‘As you wish, but the offer is there,’ he murmured and lifted her hand to his lips, burning his mark on her. ‘I keep my promises.’

  Thyre regarded her hand. There was no mark, but the skin pulsated with warmth. The sensation would pass in a moment if she kept her calm. ‘I have made my choice and I never deviate from my course.’

  ‘Did anyone miss me?’ Dagmar asked, breezing into the kitchen as the sun was beginning to sink lower in the west, lighting the sky an intense orangey red. ‘I should never have worn my new boots. I slipped twice and now my toes ache.’

  ‘I missed you. And your father even came into the kitchen to enquire where you were.’ Thyre pressed her lips together. She had wanted to talk to Dagmar about the Viken and to get her opinion. So far, Ivar appeared to have caused a dozen jobs to be carried out. And his honeyed tones had led Ragnfast to dream of riches. And there was that brief kiss to be considered. What did he really want? ‘This feast means a lot to him.’

  ‘He came in here? His head has really been turned with the tales of the wealth the Viken jaarls brought back from Lindisfarne. There is more to a man than his fortune.’ Dagmar sat down and took her boot off. She wriggled her toes and started to massage the bottom of her foot. ‘There, you see, I did hurt them. You have no idea of the pain I have gone through.’

  Thyre bit back the words telling Dagmar that it had been her choice to go up to the lookout point rather than help with the feast. ‘I did warn you about those boots. They look uncomfortable, no matter how bright and red they might be.’

  Dagmar shifted uncomfortably as she reached down to give one of the sleeping cats a stroke. ‘I met a forester. Word has reached him. Sven should be here within days, a week at most. He has said that all the foresters will be sure to be at the feast tonight.’

  ‘Back so soon?’ Thyre commented, but privately she heaved a sigh of relief. Dagmar had been sensible. Having the foresters there would mean that the Viken would be less likely to start anything.

  ‘His business was concluded more quickly than he thought.’

  ‘Your forester knows a great deal about Sven and his plans.’ Thyre tilted her head and tried to assess Dagmar. Dagmar was normally very truthful, but Thyre also knew how badly Dagmar wanted Sven to return. How much was wishful thinking? She shivered slightly, remembering the stories about Ragnfast’s mother and how she had been touched by the gods.

  ‘Sven set up a system of signals or something.’ Dagmar waved an airy hand. ‘I do not really understand it. But he has kept true to his promise. He alerted me. Now I can prepare. I will be a bride before summer ends.’

  ‘You will have to be prepared to serve the ale,’ a maid said, coming in and refilling her jug. ‘Ragnfast is like a bear with a sore head. He keeps asking for Dagmar. And the Viken are calling for more ale, more meat.’

  Thyre drew in her breath sharply, but the maid looked unrepentant, shifting the jug to the other hip and flouncing out.

  Dagmar lifted her chin and her eyes swam with tears. ‘I never shirk my work. It just took longer than I thought.’

  ‘I will have a word with her,’ Thyre said quietly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Dagmar reached out her hand and squeezed Thyre’s fingers. ‘Far knows there are more than enough women. He trusts your judgement. It is that maid, Hilde, trying to make trouble. She wanted Sven and now she always tries to undermine me.’

  ‘You can’t go out like that.’ Thyre brushed some of the brambles off Dagmar’s skirt. ‘You must wash your face and brush your clothes down. I will take the jug around until you are ready. The Viken will not notice the difference.’

  ‘One might. The Viken jaarl’s eyes seemed to follow you everywhere on the beach.’

  ‘You are impossible, Dagmar.’ Thyre kept her gaze on Beygul as the cat washed its back legs.

  ‘You are so much fun to tease, Thyre. As if a warrior could ever get past your sharp tongue…you terrify them.’ Dagmar tucked her head into her chin and batted her eyelashes. ‘I promise to take over once I have changed…if your Viken jaarl will permit it.’

  Thyre made an annoyed noise in the back of her throat. ‘And do go quickly. I will expect a favour from you one day.’

  Thyre picked up the remaining jug and ignored the temptation to smooth her skirt and pinch her cheeks after Dagmar had scurried from the room. She was doing this to help Dagmar, not because she wanted to see Ivar again.

  The banqueting hall strained to hold all the Viken warriors. The central fire combined with the torches to bathe the room in a red glow, disguising the threadbare hangings and fading paint.


  Thyre worked efficiently, pouring the ale with a steady hand. She managed to sidestep outstretched arms and ignored the playful remarks from various foresters. Several of the maids appeared less inclined to avoid the hands, giggling and boldly meeting the man’s gaze as they perched first on this knee and then the next. One had an avaricious look in her eyes as she toyed with a Viken’s golden torc. Thyre half-expected her to demand a morning gift before she had even bestowed a kiss. Thyre frowned and gestured towards the other tables. Instantly the woman leapt up and started scurrying about. The other maids quickly started putting more effort into their work as well. Thyre gave a nod as the banqueting hall began to hum with activity and purpose once again.

  By the time she had returned to the kitchen, Dagmar had failed to reappear so Thyre refilled her jug with mead and started towards the high table. In the light breeze, the torches fluttered slightly, casting their shadows about. Her breath caught as the crowd parted suddenly, revealing the top table and Ivar. As Ragnfast was absent, Ivar sat in solitary splendour, much as a king might survey his court.

  He had changed from his seafaring clothes to the ones he might wear at a market town. His fur-lined cape contrasted with the dark red wool and gold braid of his tunic. The leather trousers were moulded to his thighs and left little to the imagination. A pulsating warmth infused Thyre. His feet were encased in soft kid boots and at his throat he wore an intricate golden torc. Everything about him proclaimed that here was a successful trader, a man used to the trappings of power and wealth and not afraid to use them to his advantage.

  Thyre bit her lip, gave her head a little shake and broke the spell. She concentrated on carrying the full jug of mead, rather than letting her attention wander again to the way his hair skimmed his shoulders.

  ‘You left me until last, my disdainful lady.’ The jaarl’s voice rumbled in her ears. It was liquid and golden like the honey that first emerged from the comb. ‘My horn awaits your nectar.’

  ‘The mead needs to be served at the correct temperature,’ Thyre replied, resisting the urge to tip the whole lot over his arrogant head. This time, he would not kiss her or trap her into some sort of flirtatious game. ‘I had assumed that you would have been well looked after. My stepfather takes pride in producing a good feast, never allowing the horns to go empty.’

  ‘He has been remiss.’ His eyes danced as he held up his empty drinking horn. ‘Perhaps the women feel that my men are in more need of nourishment than I. Perhaps they fear the Viken jaarl.’

  ‘Your comfort is important as you are an honoured guest. Are you hungry?’

  ‘It depends what is on offer. I can afford to be choosy.’ His eyes deepened slightly.

  ‘Then you are not starving.’

  ‘I’m ravenous for the right morsel.’ He took a long sip from his drinking horn. ‘I have learnt the value of patience. Why rush when perfection may happen to pass?’

  Thyre licked her dry lips and resisted the urge to smile triumphantly. She would best him at his own game. Leaning forwards, she lowered her voice to a throaty whisper as she filled the horn with the golden liquid. ‘Patience is an admirable quality.’

  ‘Ah, I wait for the right mead and you wait for…’

  ‘My supper,’ she said smoothly.

  His direct gaze met hers and a half-smile crossed his lips. ‘Very good. You are learning. Practice makes perfect. Shall we cross more than verbal swords?’

  Thyre knew that she didn’t want just one night. She wanted more—a life, watching her children grow up and a husband who respected her. The Viken wanted a flirtation. However, she could also not rid herself of the image Dagmar had planted in her mind—the Viken’s limbs entwined with hers, and his soft words rustling against her hair.

  Thyre inclined her head. ‘You are here and my stepfather has decreed we feast, so we feast and your horn is filled with ale. There is no time for anything else.’

  ‘But I should like to learn more about you. What are you waiting for? What dreams haunt your beautiful eyes?’

  Thyre resolutely kept her gaze away from his bow-shaped mouth. ‘My opinion means very little except where the production of bread or cloth is concerned. My entire life is here at the farm. I have no wish to look beyond its horizons. Where is your horizon?’

  ‘The ever-changing sea makes an admirable horizon.’ His gaze narrowed and became focused on her eyes. ‘Is there something? Is there something about my face that offends? You seem to be looking in the middle distance.’

  ‘No, I am trying to make sure that two of your warriors do not come to blows over Hilde, one of the serving maids.’ Thyre snapped her fingers over her head and gestured. Hilde screwed up her face, but obeyed Thyre’s unspoken command. ‘There, she has gone back to the kitchen and your men are friends again.’

  ‘You avoided the question.’

  Thyre regarded the savage markings on his face more closely. Without them, he would have been breathtaking. She knew Dagmar wanted physical perfection, but she saw the dignity in the scarring. Whatever he had been through must have caused considerable pain. It might even pain him still, but he did not hide away in solitude, he went out and met the world head on. ‘Your scar adds to the character of your face.’

  His eyes assessed her. ‘Many find it hard to look on.’

  ‘What caused the scarring? A sword fight?’

  ‘An encounter in my youth with a wolf—I objected to becoming his next meal.’

  ‘Did the wolf survive?’

  ‘For many years his silver pelt has graced my bed.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘I made sure of that. He died with my sword in his neck.’

  ‘Then the scars are honourable and should be worn with pride.’ She paused, becoming serious. ‘My mother taught me that it is how a man behaves, and not the way he looks, that matters. She had a disappointment early in her life and it was a lesson she learnt the hard way.’

  The very air seemed to crackle between them.

  He leant forwards and took the jug from her unresisting hand. ‘Come sit beside me, princess. It has been a long time since a woman has kept me so entertained with just her words.’

  ‘Why are you calling me princess? What have I done to deserve such a nickname?’ she asked.

  ‘You command this estate like a princess. Every time I ask for something, the thralls tell me to ask you, rather than Ragnfast or your half-sister.’

  ‘This farm does not run itself. There are many things that need to be accomplished, regardless of who graces our shores. Ragnfast remains very much in charge. I simply do the women’s work.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘There is nothing simple about running an estate. My sister, Astrid, reminds me of this every time I return home.’

  ‘I dare say in Viken you like your women to be silently spinning and weaving.’ Thyre gave an arched laugh, remembering some of her mother’s comments about the violence of the Viken court. ‘Silence is not one of my virtues.’

  ‘In Viken, the queen sits next to the king in the Storting and advises him. I doubt Asa has ever handled a spindle. But my late wife was one such as you describe. My comfort was ever uppermost in her thoughts.’

  ‘And what does King Thorkell think about it?’ Thyre kept her tone measured. Despite everything, she wanted to ask about the Viken king, the father she had never met and the woman he had finally chosen. Here, at long last, was someone who knew him and knew the sort of man he was. Her mother had said very little when Thyre was young and Thyre treasured every scrap of knowledge. ‘Does he approve? Or does he long for a woman like your late wife?’

  ‘I doubt he has much choice. Asa is very strong willed, but he respects her counsel. They are well matched.’

  Respects her counsel. Thyre risked a breath. She could not imagine her uncle, the current Ranrike king, respecting any woman’s counsel. She could remember her mother complaining bitterly about how her brother, King Mysing, refused to listen to a mere woman’s words. ‘And do the Viken jaarls respect her as well?’
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  ‘You under-estimate Asa at your peril.’ A faint smile touched his lips. ‘I suspect you also should not be underestimated.’

  ‘A compliment?’

  ‘If you wish to call it that.’ Ivar leant forwards, his hand closed over hers, holding her in his strong grip. ‘And, my lady, why does Thorkell the Viken king and his queen fascinate you if you have no wish to know what lies beyond the horizon? What else are you hiding from me?’

  Chapter Four

  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.