Buch lesen: «The Viking's Captive Princess»
‘You will not use this as an excuse to take this land. Your quarrel is with me and me alone.’
Ivar’s insolent gaze raked her form, burning through Thyre’s clothes. Against her will, the memory of what it was like to lie wrapped in his arms welled up inside her. Angrily she damped it down, but not before a knowing gleam appeared in his eyes.
‘I did not hear you complaining last night. What passed between us was your suggestion.’
‘That was different. It ended this morning.’
‘We are far from finished, you and I.’
The back of her neck prickled a warning. She took a half-step backwards, but his hand shot out, clamping around her waist and pulling her forward. His thigh hit her hip. Ruthlessly he lowered his mouth. His tongue delicately traced the outline of her mouth. Her hands came up and buried themselves in his hair, wanting the warmth to continue.
Abruptly he let her go and ran a finger down the side of her face and neck…
‘Mine.’
Author's Note
This is my third story about the jaarls who raided Lindisfarne and what happened to them afterwards. It is a linked book, rather than a continuation of the story. All you need to know is that the book is set at the beginning of the Viking era and the hero is a Viking warrior. The countries or areas of Ranrike and Viken did exist, but the exact nature of their relationship is lost to the mists of time. Because a number of you have written wanting to know about them, several characters from previous books do make appearances, and it was great fun to be able to revisit the world I created in the other two books. Hopefully you will enjoy reading about Thyre and Ivar.
As ever, I love getting reader letters, either via post to Harlequin Mills & Boon, through my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog: http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com
The Viking’s Captive Princess
Michelle Styles
About the Author
Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch.
Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.
Recent novels by the same author:
THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR
A NOBLE CAPTIVE
SOLD AND SEDUCED
THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS
TAKEN BY THE VIKING
A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER
(part of Christmas By Candlelight)
VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE
AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE
A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY
IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE
COMPROMISING MISS MILTON
MILLS & BOON
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Prologue
In memory of my brother Eric
(1962–1992),
who first listened to my stories and who believed.
Chapter One
796—on Norway’s border with Sweden
‘Thor’s Hammer, Uncle Ivar, you were right! They are waiting for us. Sitting there. Bold as you like!’
Ivar Gunnarson, jaarl of Viken, glanced towards where his nephew pointed. In the shadow of a rocky island Ranriken dragon boats lurked. Ivar tightened his grip on the steering oar, moving the oar fractionally to the right, and the Sea Witch responded instantly to his command.
‘The Ranrike honour us. Five boats against a single boat. It will make for an interesting race.’
All movement had stopped on the boat and the men had turned towards Ivar, their expressions a mixture of fear mingled with anticipation as their calloused hands lightly rested on the oars. Ivar knew he would prove worthy of their trust. He would see them safely home. Ivar put his trust in things—the strength of his sword arm, the tautness of his sail, the trueness of his aim—rather than the mumblings of priests or the wearing of amulets. Deeds, not words.
‘But, Uncle Ivar,’ Asger said, ‘why are they waiting for us now? Why didn’t they attack us when we were going out to Birka?’
‘They were no danger to us on the way out to Birka, young Asger. Listen to your uncle,’ Erik the Black shouted from where he sat. ‘The Ranriken king wanted us to do the hard work. He desires the spices and silks we are bringing home to Viken, but fears the open sea. Your uncle predicted this for months before the voyage began. Despite all those who proclaimed a supernatural cause for our boats not returning, your uncle said there was another cause. Trust him. He knows the sea and its ways.’
Other oarsmen echoed Erik’s words and Asger’s worried frown disappeared.
‘And now the race with the Ranrike begins.’ Ivar adjusted his grip on the handle of the steering oar as he considered the silks, amber and other precious cargo that filled his hold. More than a king’s ransom if he could make it to the markets of Kaupang. ‘Here is where you learn what it is to be a true Viken warrior and a member of the felag, Asger.’
‘How can we hope to succeed against the boats and the storm?’ Asger wiped his hand across his mouth, his face becoming pinched as he glanced towards the clouds skittering across the sky.
‘We go forward, outrun them. The Sea Witch is the fastest of the Viken ships under sail. She will do anything I ask her.’
‘Anything? Even with those storm crows hanging in the air?’ Asger asked, pointing to the gigantic flock of black-winged birds beginning to circle the boat. ‘You know what they say about them and this passage. The crows are Ran’s messengers, telling her where to cast her net for men’s souls, Uncle Ivar.’
‘Crows are birds. They enjoy the wind. It gives them a chance to spread their wings,’ Ivar said.
‘Oh, I had not thought about them enjoying the wind.’
Ivar concentrated on the waves hitting the boat. Some day when the time for voyages had ended and he could again think about getting a wife, he would like to have a child like Asger. In time, the lad would make an able warrior.
The wind stirred the sea into a froth of white-capped waves and the sound of the crows screamed in his ears. Ivar kept his hand steady on the steering oar. The Sea Witch could hold her own in any contest with the weather. The keel and the rigging had been made to his design; if they held throughout the voyage to Northum-bria two years ago, they would hold now.
‘Erik the Black, did you put new rope on the right rigging?’
The seafarer looked up from where he sat at his oar and scratched the side of his nose. ‘I did. Exactly how you instructed, Ivar.’
‘The Ranrike expect us to make for the nearest inlet. Once there, all they have to do is wait and lurk, putting the stopper in the jug and stealing all our hard-won cargo.’ Ivar paused, allowing the men to absorb his words. Then he raised his fist. ‘I refuse to have that happen. We will outrun this storm and their boats. We will make it back to Kaupang.’
‘Put the sails to the test!’ the crew cried.
‘You read my mind.’ Ivar leant forwards as the wind whipped his dark blonde hair. With impatient fingers, he pushed it back from his face. ‘Erik the Black has said he followed my instructions. The rigging will hold. We raise the sail on my command.’
‘Viken! Viken!’
The Ranrike began their move, gliding forwards. The shouts of the oarsmen echoed across the strait. Within a few breaths, the only avenue of escape would close, but the timing had to be precise. The Ranrike could not be allowed a chance to regroup.
‘The mast creaks in the wind, Ivar!’ Erik the Black shouted. ‘We need to lower the sail soon or risk breaking it.’
‘Keep those ropes taut!’ Ivar eyed the storm clouds in the sky as the Sea Witch strained against his steering oar, ready to fly over the waves to safety. ‘And I want double-quick time when the sail comes down.’
‘At your command.’
The entire crew’s eyes were on him, hands poised on oars, trusting him and his judgement. He held up his hand, waiting as the water slapped against the side of the boat, enjoying the heady feeling of pitting his wits against the world. The storm crows wheeled around the ship one more time. ‘Now!’
The chequered red-and-white sail unfurled, hung for a heartbeat flapping in the wind as the men struggled with the ropes. The shouts from the other boats drowned out the cawing of the crows. Ivar saw the swords glinting, held aloft, poised to strike. One Ranriken boat began to lower its boarding plank, anticipating the moment. Ivar reached forwards, grabbed the end of the rope and tightened it with a few expert twists.
The sail filled and strained against the ropes. The Sea Witch picked up speed, sliding between the two lead Ranrike boats close enough for Ivar to see the astonished expression on the men’s faces as their prey escaped. Ivar saluted the chief Ranrike jaarl, Sigmund Sigmundson, a man who bowed and scraped when they had appeared before King Mysing, the Ranriken king on their way to Birka. Men, not curses, guarded these straits. And men could be defeated.
Ivar turned his face into the wind. All he had to do was steer the boat towards Kaupang and Viken. The coming storm would test him and the men, but they would succeed because of the strength of the keel, the sturdiness of the sail and, above all, the skill with which he navigated.
‘Ivar,’ Erik the Black shouted, ‘one of the Ranrike boats. It is giving chase.’
A wave washed over the prow of the boat, soaking him and his men to the skin. ‘The fun truly begins!’ Ivar called. ‘May the best boat win!’
Thyre, Sainsfrida’s daughter, picked her way amongst the sticks and boards that littered the shore of the hidden Ranriken bay, which was exactly halfway between the Ranriken capital city of Ranhiem and the Viken city of Kaupang.
She lifted the skirt of her apron dress so that it remained free of the seaweed and watery pools. The devastation from last night’s storm was far greater than she had first thought.
‘At least one ship perished in the storm, Dagmar, maybe more. This wood came from somewhere.’
‘Do you think so? I thought the gods just made it appear,’ her half-sister said, her pretty face frowning. She stood just beyond the high-tide mark, keeping her elaborately pleated apron dress pristine. ‘I wish my Sven was here. He would use the wood to build us a proper house. And he would know exactly which ship they had come from as well. He is like that, Sven. Useful. Knowledgeable. My father should have valued his opinion more and then Sven might have stayed, instead of going off to the high pastures to see about felling the king’s trees.’
Thyre carefully composed her features. Dagmar had been infatuated with Sven ever since she had first laid eyes on him earlier this summer. The bold forester had captured her half-sister’s heart with his ready wit, dancing eyes and dazzling smile, despite his lack of money and status. For once, Dagmar had ignored Thyre’s hints and warnings about how a jaarl’s daughter would never be allowed to marry a forester and had kept on finding excuses to meet him. But Thyre knew her stepfather, Ragnfast the Steadfast, had plans for his only child, plans that did not include marrying her off to a man who had few prospects beyond caring for the king’s trees.
‘Your father might think differently. After all, the ships have washed up on his land.’
‘Far will give my Sven the lumber, once Sven asks for my hand in marriage.’ Dagmar shook her ash-blonde locks, which were a complete contrast to Thyre’s own black-as-night hair. Her daytime and night-time daughters, their mother used to say. ‘He will have to. A married woman needs her own hall. And it makes perfect sense to use this wood.’
Thyre raised an eyebrow. She could think of a dozen better uses for the wood than saving it for some dream hall. ‘Sven might wish to choose his own wood. There is a certain something about felling trees of your choosing to make a hall.’
‘Hmm, perhaps you are right…’ Dagmar tapped her finger against her overly generous mouth. ‘Far will keep it for his own use. He never listens to Sven’s ideas about how the farm could be improved.’
Thyre made a show of brushing sand from the piece of wood. She had already heard several of Sven’s ideas for improvement and had thought little of them. Thankfully, just as Ragnfast had heeded her mother’s counsel until her mother’s death eight years ago, Ragnfast always consulted her and followed her advice. And the estate prospered.
‘I know what your father is like.’ Thyre gave a laugh. ‘He will think the timber a gift from the gods. The lower barn has a gaping hole in its roof. It needs to be fixed before the cows come back from pasture. Your father made the appropriate sacrifice for this only last week and will not want to go against the gods’ generous response.’
‘Do you know where the ships have come from?’ Dagmar asked, prodding a piece of timber with a delicate foot. ‘Is it one of ours…a Ranrike? You know I can’t read runes. The scratching jumps about so and never seems to mean the same thing.’
‘If you would pay attention, Dagmar, you could learn. I did. Mother tried to teach you before she died, and I have offered to continue her teaching.’
Dagmar batted her lashes. ‘I would rather be spinning or weaving. There is something so satisfying about creating cloth.’
‘But the daughter of a princess should know how to read runes.’ Thyre pointed to the markings on the board. Some day, she would win the argument and Dagmar would learn to read. ‘See, this bit says Ran and the other bit says hammer. You can do it if you try.’
Dagmar shook her head. ‘It is all far too boring and the runes jump about so. Besides, I will have my older sister to read the runes for me. You will always be here on the steading. I do not know how Far would manage without you and your advice.’
‘Yes, you are right. I have no plans to go anywhere.’ Thyre gave a tight smile. Dagmar might have dreams of marrying her Sven, but Thyre also had dreams of her own. Some day she hoped to meet a man worthy of her love—one who would respect her counsel as well as love her, one who would want her for herself rather than anything she could bring to the marriage. ‘If you ever change your mind, I will be happy to teach you.’
Sometimes Thyre walked out to the headland and looked out at the strait, wondering what lay beyond. It was not as if she hated her life here, but she did wonder what else there might be. Ragnfast and her mother had promised to take her to the Ranrike capital when she was grown. But her mother had died during the winter of her eighth year and Ragnfast had been loathe to leave the farm unattended.
‘Who does the ship belong to, Thyre? You must know from the runes.’
Thyre forced her mind back from the horizon and concentrated.
‘It is one of ours, a Ranriken, but it has not been in the water long. The etchings are too fresh. The shipwreck must have happened last night during the storm.’ Thyre tapped a finger against her lips as a thousand unanswered questions crowded into her brain. Why had the ship been out on the strait? It was most likely one of Sigmund Sigmundson’s. The jaarl had promised to protect the seas from marauding Viken intent on plundering Ranrike. Had they perished, keeping this bay safe? ‘We need to inform Ragnfast immediately.’
Dagmar nodded, accepting Thyre’s verdict. ‘That is unusual. Normally our ships are all safely at harbour when the storm breaks. The Ranrike understand the enormity of Ran’s wrath. How very foolish of the captain. If my Sven had been there, he would have told the captain to stay in his bay.’
‘It happens.’ Thyre put the board down. ‘Ran will have had her net out and will have collected the drowned men.’
‘Drowned men? Dead men!’ Dagmar screwed her face up and Thyre winced. ‘I had not thought of the dead.’
‘I had, and somewhere wives and children will be waiting.’
‘We should go back and tell Far now. He will want to gather the wood and dispose of the bodies.’ Dagmar’s nose wrinkled and she lifted the hem of her skirt, carefully stepping around the piles of seaweed and smashed boards. ‘It is a pity there is no cargo. I could have done with a new dress.’
‘Always the practical one, Dagmar.’ Thyre shook her head in dismay. Dagmar never seemed to consider the future beyond its impact on her, whereas Thyre found herself always asking questions and pondering the reasons why a thing happened.
Dagmar clutched Thyre’s arm, preventing her from going further along the shore. ‘There is a ship on the horizon. Is it one of ours?’
Thyre shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun, impatiently pushing a lock of crow’s wing black hair back from her eyes. She should know the answer without even seeing the ship’s prow. ‘The sail is unusual. Chequered, red and white. Viken, not Ranriken.’
‘How many are there? Is it a raid?’ Dagmar’s voice dropped to a soft whisper as if she feared the unknown boat might hear them. ‘Do we light the beacon?’
‘Not yet, Dagmar. Let Ragnfast be the one to make that decision.’ Silently, Thyre vowed to help him make the right choice.
‘I’m frightened, Thyre.’
Thyre patted Dagmar’s arm. Both of them knew the tales of the Viken raids. The most recent had been the daring raid on the fabulously wealthy monastery in the British Isles. The men who had participated were now fêted as heroes in the north countries, but they were also feared. Who knew where their ambition lay? Before her marriage to Ragnfast, their mother had been a hostage of the Viken king. Thyre had been the result of her mother’s time in Kaupang and the reason for her mother’s subsequent banishment to this far-flung estate.
‘There is only one boat that I can see but there are still things that need to be hidden, even if the Viken are only here for a short time.’
‘But the Viken rarely come here. This inlet is not on any trading route.’ Colour drained from Dagmar’s face. ‘They can’t wish to…’
Thyre grabbed her half-sister’s shoulders and gave her a slight shake. Now was not the time for self-indulgent panic. ‘Dagmar, you must pay attention. It is important. We have no idea of the ship’s intentions, but we have to assume they will be seeking to raid. If we act properly, we may only lose a few sheep or pigs.’
‘You always know what to do, Thyre.’ Dagmar gulped air.
‘It is good to be prepared.’
Thyre’s mind raced. She knew every detail of the plans to survive a raid—where the gold would be hidden, and the grain, where the women would go and hide. The plans had been in place since before her mother died of a fever. A cool head and an even manner solved more problems than a quick temper. Thyre shook her head slightly. The Viken would not find them an easy target, not while she had breath in her body.
‘My mind is a blank. What do I do next?’ Dagmar’s eyes were wide. ‘I just wish Sven was here. He knows all about interpreting omens and what they mean.’
Thyre made a non-committal noise. The other night, the full moon had risen blood red, a potent portent of change and destruction for the Ranrike royal house. According to Ragnfast, the last time such a thing had happened, her mother had died. This time he had immediately ordered several sacrifices so that the farm could remain unharmed, but it appeared the gods were deaf. The Viken had arrived.
‘Will you tell my father without me?’ Dagmar put her hands under her apron. ‘You know how he hates bad news. He will take it better from you. You will give him good counsel. I swear I do not know how you keep everything straight, but you do.’
Thyre drew in a deep breath. ‘You need not worry, Dagmar, I will inform Ragnfast. He always listens to me in these matters.’
The anxious frown between Dagmar’s two perfect eyebrows eased. ‘You are good to me, Thyre. I don’t know what I would do without you. You are always there to ease my fears.’
‘You are my baby sister.’ Thyre held out her hand, curling her long fingers around Dagmar’s slender ones. Dagmar’s hand tightened and she gave a trembling nod. A great fondness for Dagmar welled up inside Thyre. After their mother died, Ragnfast had raged for weeks on end. Thyre had feared for her safety, and she and Dagmar had clung to each other. They might not share as many secrets now, but Dagmar was Thyre’s one true friend and her only beloved sister. ‘Remember when we swore the blood oath?’
‘You are right.’ Dagmar’s face cleared and she gave a brilliant smile. ‘We spilled our blood together after Mor died. I had forgotten that we were once determined to be warriors.’
‘But I remembered.’
‘We greet the Viken with the respect any man should show his neighbour,’ Ragnfast pronounced, using the words Thyre had agreed with him. The household stood on the shoreline waiting, watching the dragon boat draw slowly closer.
The shields still hung on the side of the Viken dragon boat, indicating that its occupants travelled in peace, for the moment. Peace was a fragile thing where Viken warriors were concerned. The tales the jaarl Sigmund Sigmundson had told about Viken treachery the last time he had visited made her blood run cold.
‘The rules of hospitality are very clear in the north and we shall keep them, as we have always done.’
Thyre heaved a sigh of relief.
After his initial explosion of incredulity, Ragnfast had agreed to her plans. Now, all the gold and silver and the furs were hidden; the tapestries had been taken down and stored. The majority of the livestock remained on the summer pasture, so it was possible that the Viken would think theirs was a poor farm, rather than a prosperous estate. Thyre remembered the ruse working once before, when she was a little girl and Dagmar was little more than a babe in arms. Then the Viken had come and her mother had dealt with them, sending Dagmar and Thyre to the hiding place in the woods.
‘But King Mysing decreed all Viken ships are fair plunder…or so the jaarl Sigmund proclaimed the last time he was here,’ cried a voice at the back. ‘What have the Viken ever done for us except burn our lands and take our wives?’
Thyre kept her back resolutely straight. She did not need to see Ragnfast’s face to know how he’d react. He disliked the young jaarl and his ideas about how to solve the problem of the Viken plundering their coastline. He had rejected her first suggestion of lighting the bonfire to alert Sigmund to their potential danger.
‘Sigmund and his cronies may have broken frithe with the Viken King Thorkell, but I haven’t,’ Ragnfast thundered. ‘I remember the days, the days of our old king, King Mysing’s father, when Ranrike prospered and the markets overflowed with goods. Ships sailed to Ranhiem rather than to Birka or Kaupang. Now it is all bloodshed and plunder. My taste for bloodshed vanished a lifetime ago.’
‘Dagmar, are the horns of drink filled properly?’ Thyre asked, seeking to draw Ragnfast back to the present difficulty. Dagmar held up her horn of ale. Thyre was pleased that Ragnfast had agreed to her suggestion of ale rather than mead. It was only one ship, not a fleet. The Viken would understand. He was likely not high enough status to warrant a better drink. And this way he would think them a poor homestead rather than a prosperous estate. ‘The other women and I can follow Dagmar after the Viken captain has the first drink.’
‘It is a good idea, Thyre,’ Ragnfast said. ‘We do not have the men to provoke him. A soft word and a timely fluttered eyelash can do much, as your mother used to say.’
‘Thyre, that is your second-best apron dress,’ Dagmar whispered. ‘And your face is far too solemn. What is there to worry about? Greeting warriors is supposed to be a happy occasion. We should honour them.’
‘I have had more than enough swaggering boasts from Sigmund’s warriors. I wonder if the Viken will be any different? All brawn and very little brain is my educated guess.’ Thyre pasted her smile firmly in place. She remembered her mother’s stories of her time as a hostage in the Viken court, about how fights broke out at the least provocation.
What excuse would the Viken use to destroy this farm? And what would they say if they knew who her natural father was, that her mother had disobeyed the time-honoured custom of children conceived in this way? She had not sent her newborn daughter to be killed by the Viken king and had instead prevailed on Ragnfast to accept her as a true Ranrike woman and member of his family.
‘Thyre, I think I forgot to put the weaving frame away.’ Dagmar’s voice broke through her reverie. ‘Do you think I should go back? That bit of cloth is nearly done and I was particularly proud of the raven pattern.’
‘I already put it away.’ Thyre struggled to keep the doors of her imagination closed. ‘With so many warriors, it would have been in the way. You know how clumsy they are with their feet.’
‘You are a love. You always know just what to do.’ Dagmar patted Thyre’s arm. ‘Think positively. Who knows—you may find a mate amongst the Viken? They are supposed to be wealthy.’
Mate, not husband. The words were unmistakeable and ill-chosen. Thyre made her face into a bland mask. She was well aware of her limited options without Dagmar’s thoughtless reminder. It was unlikely that any warrior would make an offer for her. She had no family, no land, nothing to make a true warrior desire her for a wife.
She gave a wry smile. Ragnfast had held true to his promise to her mother and let her manage the estate, but she also knew he would not provide a dowry. She refused to be just anyone’s concubine. Royal blood ran in her veins. She deserved better. Her mother would have approved of her decision to stay unwed rather than to marry beneath her. In her dreams, Thyre longed to find the one man who would cherish her in the way her mother had been cherished by Ragnfast. Some day, she wanted to meet a man with whom she could exchange loving glances in the way Ragnfast and her mother had exchanged glances. In the end her mother had discovered love with a man who treated her as an equal, rather than as an accessory, a pawn, or a stepping stone to the throne of Ranrike. In order to marry her mother, Ragnfast had taken an oath of loyalty to King My sing, vowing never to claim the throne in his wife’s name, or to permit any of his children to make a claim.
‘I am not looking for anyone. I love it here. It is safe and secure. And if I did, he would have to be more intelligent than those Viken warriors. Can you see the biceps rippling on the leader? Definitely more brawn than brain.’
Dagmar put her hand on Thyre’s sleeve and whispered in her ear. ‘Love can just happen, as it did between Sven and me. One day, I glanced up and there he was, all silhouetted in gold, his cloak slightly drawn back, and I knew that he was the right man for me.’
‘I am not you, Dagmar—in love one day and the next out of it.’
‘You mean the warrior from Gotaland last summer who wanted to buy Far’s lumber and thought to get a better price by seducing his daughter? That was nothing. A pure girlish fantasy. I have quite forgotten why I shed all those tears.’ Dagmar sighed dramatically. ‘I have sworn to be true to Sven. I want him to know that should I bear a child, it will be his.’
A warning twinge went through Thyre. Child? That was fantasy. They knew that Dagmar’s monthly flow had come since Sven had left. Dagmar was given to dramatic statements, but there was something in her eyes. Exactly what had Dagmar sworn to Sven? Dagmar should know that she had no right to swear anything without her father’s consent. It could only lead to heartache. Silently Thyre cursed Sven for being so selfish, and for Dagmar’s fear in telling her father.
Once the Viken had departed, she would discover more about this oath. Unless it was made with Rag-nfast’s consent, it was empty words.
‘The dragon boat has landed! The Viken have arrived!’ The cry echoed up and down the beach.
Thyre pressed her lips together. Dagmar appeared normal enough, smoothing her skirt and biting her lips to make them appear ripe cherry red—all the actions she normally took. Thyre hoped her concerns about Dagmar were just wisps of doubt. Perhaps another warrior would capture her fancy, and her oath to Sven would become a distant and unwelcome memory.
Up close, the Viken dragon boat showed signs of battering from the storm—a broken oar, a battered prow and loose ropes—but nothing major. Not like the poor Ranriken ship whose remains were still scattered over the shore. Had it been hunting this Viken one? And if so, what had this Viken ship done? Which other farms had they attacked? Thyre shifted uneasily, weighing the possibilities, but knowing they had no choice but to offer hospitality.
