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‘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.

‘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!’

‘There are other ways…’

‘Father will not listen. He refuses to even consider you.’ Dagmar’s eyes flashed and her mouth became pinched.

‘You offered me!’ Thyre stared at her half-sister. She swallowed hard and tried to make sense of it. ‘You might have asked me. Do you think so little of me to treat me like some thrall to be ordered about?’

‘Not offered, not exactly…I simply mentioned that the jaarl had asked after you. You were the one that he took the horn from…’ Dagmar’s voice trailed away and she lightly touched the hilt of the blade. Tears shimmered in her eyes. ‘It was wrong of me, Thyre, I see that now. But it doesn’t matter because Far would not hear of it. He is determined to marry you off to Otto and wants to keep you for that marriage bed. Why does he care more about you than me?’

‘Dagmar…’ Thyre said quietly. ‘Dagmar, you’re scaring me. Sit down and we will talk sensibly.’

‘There is only one thing for me to do. I am an honourable woman.’

The knife glinted in the firelight. Thyre’s blood ran cold. Who did Dagmar intend to hurt—Ragnfast, the Viken jaarl or herself? ‘Dagmar, you are not a character in a saga. If you hurt the Viken, or you die, Sven loses you for good. Sven won’t want that. He loves you.’ Thyre hated the desperation in her voice. ‘Nobody wants that.’

‘I swore an oath to Sven. How else can I prove my worth?’ Dagmar raised the knife a little higher. The blade glinted ominously in the dying embers of the fire. ‘Please tell him that I kept true to my sacred vow, the one we made in front of Var’s statue on the night before he departed.’

Thyre kept her eyes trained on the knife, measuring the distance between it and her hand. There was a chance that she might be able to get it before Dagmar plunged it into her breast. Slowly she rose and took a half-step towards Dagmar.

‘There will be a solution to your problem. There is always a solution.’ Thyre made her voice sound light and soothing. Dagmar could be distracted by her singsong tone. She could save Dagmar’s life. She had to try. ‘I will find it for you. You can’t undo the past, but you do want a future with Sven.’

‘Sven will not have me if he knows I have slept in the same bed as another man, especially not a Viken, even if he is a jaarl. I will be cursed for ever, like Mother was.’ Tears trickled down Dagmar’s face. ‘I never asked to be cursed. Our mother lost everything because she slept with a Viken, even if he was the king.’

‘Our mother found happiness with your father and you were born. How can you call that cursed?’ Thyre risked another step forwards, and prayed to any god that might be listening that her tongue would prove silver and her inspiration would hold true. ‘Hear me out! I have thought of another way!’

‘What way?’ Dagmar tilted her head to one side, the mist seeming to clear from her eyes.

Thyre risked a breath. The crisis had passed. Dagmar would listen and, when the time was right, she’d grab the knife.

‘How does your father intend for you to go to bed with this Viken? Are you to entice him there with soft words and tender looks? Or to be a surprise? A gift in his bed for when he retires.’

‘Far hasn’t said. He simply indicated what he expects from me. Where I am to sleep tonight. You must understand how important this is to him. I swear he has changed ever since his quarrel with Sigmund. Or maybe I am just seeing him clearly for the first time.’ Dagmar raised the knife again, screwing up her eyes. ‘I must be strong.’

‘All cats are black at night. All women appear the same when there is no light.’

Thyre caught Dagmar’s wrist and shook it, forcing her to drop the knife. It fell on the table with a loud thunk.

Thyre breathed a little easier. Dagmar would not die tonight. She would ensure that she did not come in contact with any more knives. Tomorrow, after the Viken had departed, Thyre would figure out a way to let Ragnfast know about Dagmar’s oath and they would discuss the best way to prevent such scenes in the future. If Dagmar was able to present a substantial morning gift to her father, Ragnfast might become more amenable to the idea of the forester as a son-in-law.

‘I don’t understand. What is all this talk of cats? We are women. Men can tell women apart.’

‘I mean if the lights are out, this Viken will not know who is in his bed.’ Thyre kept her voice calm and clear even as her mind raced. The more she considered the idea, the more she was convinced it would work. ‘He does not know you from the meanest serving girl. You are simply a warm body in the night. Whoever warms his bed means nothing to him. He will not know the difference.’

‘You are going to send a serving girl to his bed?’ Dagmar frowned. ‘You scare me, Thyre. What happens when she talks and Far hears of it?’

‘No, me. I will go. I would not trust any of the serving girls. They will all want the gift.’

Dagmar’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. ‘You would do that for me? You would take my place in that Viken’s bed?’

Thyre swallowed hard. She had been annoyed that Dagmar had offered her without consultation, but if this was the only way to save Dagmar’s life, then she would do it. She had no other choice.

‘We are sisters. I cannot let you kill yourself.’ She forced her voice to be light. ‘We swore a blood oath, Dagmar.’

‘I…I suppose you are right…’

‘I’m right. I would stake my life on it,’ Thyre said with growing confidence. She would do this. The Viken would remain in blissful ignorance and she would cheat the fate that Ragnfast had planned for her. She would obtain one night of pleasure, before she was condemned to a life of cold servitude. She remembered the way the Viken’s hand had felt against hers, the way his breath had stirred her hair.

‘But…but…’

‘If we are clever, no one will ever know who went into the Viken’s bed. He will only care that there is a warm body in it. He is a man, after all.’

Dagmar gave an excited nod, accepting the scheme. ‘But what should I do?’

‘Go now and tell your father that you are tired and will go to the Viken’s bed. Wait for me there. We can change places. You can go and sleep on my pallet, taking care to keep your hair covered.’

‘It is such a simple plan. But what happens when he wakes? Or lifts the light? Sometimes men want to have the rush light on…to see your face. Sven likes to look at mine.’

‘I will make sure there is no light.’

‘But there will be light in the morning…’

Thyre captured Dagmar’s cold hands and held them between hers. ‘In the early morning, I will slip out of the bed, and you can go back and receive any morning gift that he cares to leave. You can even sit on the end of the bed, and play with your unbound hair. That way you will keep true to your oath to Sven and your duty towards your father. Ragnfast wants the gold and the prestige. The Viken dangles the possibility of new markets for his timber.’

Dagmar bowed her head, acknowledging the truth of the statement. ‘But what if we get caught?’

‘We won’t be. What means more to you—your oath to Sven or your fear of your father? And in any case, it can hardly be worse than dying. You want to see Sven again.’

‘I…I…’

‘Allow me to handle this, Dagmar. Some day you will be able to repay me.’ Thyre closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. Dagmar had to let her do this. It was a way of solving both their problems. She had to seize the chance.

‘And you would this for me?’ Dagmar’s bottom lip trembled.

‘I refuse to let you throw yourself away. Pointless dramatic gestures only work in sagas, Dagmar. Trust me on this point.’ Thyre put her hand on Dagmar’s shoulder, squeezing it when Dagmar returned a weak smile. ‘In the name of the mother we share, I love you too much to lose you.’

‘And what is this if not a dramatic gesture by you?’

‘It is a practical one, forced on us by your father and his greed.’ Thyre straightened the pleats of her apron dress and straightened her shoulders. She could seduce the Viken jaarl. It was the only way. All it would take was a steady nerve and a cool head. ‘It is my life to make of it what I will.’