Michelle Styles - The Viking's Captive Princess

‘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?’

‘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?’

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.’