The Viking's Captive Princess. Michelle Styles
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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