The Viking’s Captive Princess Read online

  ‘And my wishes count for nothing,’ she breathed, trying to ignore the growing heat in her body. She despised her body for welcoming his touch. She should loathe this man and all she could think about was the shape of his mouth and the way his muscles had felt under her fingertips.

  ‘I have yet to force a woman, Thyre. What we enjoyed last night was pleasant and it should remain thus.’

  ‘Do you simply use women and discard them? I have never been a concubine before.’

  ‘I am well aware of the fact.’ His fingers gripped her chin and she was forced to gaze into his piercing blue eyes. ‘Drink had not dulled my senses. My bed companion was enthusiastic but untried, an intriguing combination. And now you seek to challenge my mind. What more could a man ask for?’

  ‘You have not answered my question.’ Thyre kept her voice steady, but her stomach knotted. Was this all about hurt pride or something more? Did he intend on humiliating her, making an example of her? She wished she could remember more of her mother’s tale. But then her mother was never anyone’s concubine. She had taken a lover when she was hostage to the Viken king. She had even thought she might marry, but then they had quarrelled and Ragnfast had rescued her. ‘What will happen to me when we reach Kaupang? How will I fare at court?’

  The steady rhythmic sound of the oars hitting the water surrounded them.

  ‘I will protect you, but you will not be part of the court.’

  ‘I had understood…’ Thyre breathed easier. She had to stop borrowing trouble. She might never meet her father. ‘That is…the customs of the Ranriken court allow for concubines.’

  ‘The queen does not permit it.’ He looked somewhere off into the distance. ‘Court etiquette is complex and revolves around the queen. Trust me.’

  ‘I will take your word for it.’

  His eyes crinkled. ‘You are showing a flicker of intelligence.’

  ‘I am being practical. You know the Viken court and it has a reputation of being a dangerous place.’

  ‘See the prow of a dragon ship!’ The cry resounded around the ship and Ivar’s demeanour instantly changed.

  Thyre’s heart leapt into her throat as she saw three dragon ships sail into view. Warships, bristling with shields and spears. It was far too soon for Ragnfast to have organised anything. Was Ragnfast wrong? Had Sigmund actually intended on protecting them?

  ‘What happens now? You are outnumbered,’ she said.

  Ivar stared at the horizon and silently cursed. Three ships in perfect position, lying in wait for him. He should have thought of the possibility. Ragnfast had been far too effusive in his welcome.

  When would he learn? He had only his own stubborn pride to blame. He had been so certain that he had outrun the storm, and the ships had perished. The beach had been littered with the flotsam and jetsam of at least one ship. A decoy?

  His fingers went to the hilt of his sword. Three warships and so soon after they had left the safety of Ragnfast’s harbour. And he had been prepared to swear that none survived the storm. Perhaps he had been unlucky. But he preferred to think otherwise. Men made their own luck. Someone had signalled to them.

  ‘Did you know about these warships?’ he asked Thyre, capturing her elbow with his fingers. He would get the truth from her…this time.

  ‘How can I know anything? I am merely a woman.’ Thyre tilted her head to one side. ‘Many ships travel up and down this strait and not all are bent on trouble. Perhaps you should turn around and go back to Ragnfast’s. Perhaps he can save you from your countrymen.’

  ‘They are not Viken. These are Ranrike warships. See the diamond pattern on the sails. You know whose they are.’

  He waited, watching her. A myriad of emotions crossed her face. Had she been hoping for them? If he had been in her place, he would have.

  ‘They are Sigmund’s. I can recognise the shield pattern now. But they are coming from the wrong direction.’ Her brow knit together. ‘They are coming from the east. They should have been in the west. There are no beacons to the east.’

  ‘And what will Sigmund Sigmundson say when he discovers you are on a Viken ship?’

  ‘He will rescue me.’ Thyre thrust her chin upwards and her eyes flashed. ‘Once he realises. It is the duty of any Ranrike warrior to rescue one of their women. You are best to return to Ragnfast.’

  ‘You came on to this ship freely.’ Ivar’s neck muscles ached. ‘He might think Ragnfast sent you to Viken.’

  ‘Sigmund would never do that.’ Thyre swayed slightly and then righted herself. Her eyes went to her trunk with its intricate runes. ‘Would he?’

  ‘You only hope that.’ He looked down on her. In his anger, had he missed something obvious about the situation? Had Ragnfast manipulated him into taking this woman? In many ways, it had been too easy. He had been thinking with his nether regions, rather than with his head. After the danger passed, he would examine that trunk and search its contents. He should have done it earlier. ‘Why doesn’t Sigmund use Ragnfast’s bay? It is an ideal place to strike at passing ships.’

  ‘Because…Ragnfast refused and King Mysing respected his decision. My mother never wanted anything to do with such things. But Sigmund knows that Ragnfast would never send me…unless…’ She shook her head decisively. ‘Ragnfast is loyal to Ranrike. You know who alone is responsible for me being on board. The jaarl Sigmund is an honourable man. He would rescue me, rather than use it as an excuse to punish Ragnfast for standing against him.’

  ‘You had best pray to the gods that we outrun the ships and you never have to put your theory to the test.’ Ivar started to turn away, but she grabbed his arm.

  ‘But were you able to do all your repairs?’ Thyre tilted her head to one side. ‘Your mast is creaking. Even I know that you do not raise a sail on a creaking mast.’

  ‘Watch and learn.’

  ‘You are proud, Viken. Gods punish pride. It is in the hands of gods now.’

  ‘No, it is in mine.’

  He glanced at the creaking mast. She was right. It would not wear the sail, that much was clear. And the other ships held the advantage of speed. Even now, they were manoeuvring into position. He knew in his gut that someone on the farm had a system of signalling to Sigmund and his fleet. They had been waiting for this opportunity. Very well, he would make them pay.

  ‘We fight. We win. It is how the Viken behave.’ Ivar reached for his helmet. ‘Raise shields. Prepare to ram the lead ship.’

  Chapter Eight

  With a bone-jarring crunch, the Viken ship collided with the lead Ranriken ship, ramming a hole in its centre. Confused shouts rang in Thyre’s ears as Ivar ordered the oarsmen again and again to put their backs into it.

  Thyre went down on her hands and knees and crawled her way back to her iron trunk. Her hands closed around its familiar proportions. With shaking fingers, she undid the lock and retrieved her mother’s dagger. The feel of the hilt with its engraved swans and twin rings in her hand gave her courage. She had a weapon of sorts and was far from defenceless. Not daring to look, not daring to hope, she crouched beside the trunk, hugging the knife to her breast.

  The final jolting crunch rocked the boat, making her fall flat. She turned her head, expecting to see water rushing in, but the Viken ship remained whole. At Ivar’s command, his men pulled as one and the ship lurched away, revealing a gaping black hole in the side of the Ranriken ship.

  The air teemed with the prayers and pleas from the stricken ship. Soon Ran would be out with her net, capturing the souls of the drowned, if no help came for those men.

  Above her, the seagulls circled, cawing loudly. Or were they something more sinister—Valkyries searching for warriors to take back to Odin’s halls?

  Thyre tightened her grip on her mother’s dagger and whispered prayer after prayer. For the stricken ship. For her. For this battle to end. Surely Sigmund would go to the aid of the men. It would enable the Viken to escape, but it had to be done. Ivar’s logic now became clear.

 
Sigmund would not risk losing able warriors. His ships would go to the aid of the stricken Ranriken ship. Like any good commander, he could not leave his men to drown.

  She squinted and saw Ivar silhouetted against the sun, helmeted and shouting orders as his men rowed as one. The Viken boat swung around, moving sluggishly in the water, but moving away.

  Her heart stopped as one of the Ranriken boats picked up speed, bypassed the sinking ship and headed straight for the Viken ship. But rather than ramming it, the Ranriken ship pulled alongside, bumping up against them.

  ‘Lift shields! Prepare to defend!’ Ivar’s voice thundered above the noise.

  She glanced towards Ivar’s nephew and saw his face was pale and resolute. He appeared barely old enough to lift the broad sword he carried. ‘I might wet my sword in battle today!’ he cried.

  Thyre’s stomach twisted. He was far too young. She waited, her knuckles shining white against the handle of the dagger.

  The shouts increased and she heard metal meeting metal. But the Viken appeared to prevent the Ranrike from fitting their boarding plank.

  When the third Ranrike ship put its boarding plank on the side, she knew how it would end. The sagas were suddenly horribly real. How many times had she listened to tales of battles with her heart in her throat? The reality was a thousand times worse.

  Despite the noise, the cries, and the confusion of the current battle, there was a certain measured calm in the way Ivar led his men, exhorting them to defend here and to attack there. He appeared to be everywhere at once.

  ‘Watch out, Thyre! Duck now!’ Ivar thundered and Thyre went flat. An axe hit the side of the boat, directly above her. She stared at him in wonder as he lifted his sword and engaged another warrior in battle. Despite all the noise and confusion, he had known where she was and had saved her life. She pressed her hands against her eyes, not quite able to believe it.

  Quickly she crouched down once again between the trunks and the sacks, forming a sort of tunnel, a barricade, hoping against expectation that she could survive and somehow repay the life-debt she now owed Ivar.

  Asger backed towards her, his sword held aloft. Somewhere he had lost his helmet, but his eyes were alight with excitement.

  She watched the axe rise again and pulled Asger to safety. ‘You should be more careful.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘Do you think I will get to Valhalla today?’

  ‘I hope not.’ Thyre gripped his shoulders and held the boy firmly, preventing him from wriggling away and rejoining the confusion. ‘Your mother will want to see you again. Stay here with me. Keep safe.’

  ‘No, I want to die like a warrior, not skulking like a woman. Only warriors go to Valhalla.’ Asger wriggled free and went back out into the fighting.

  Suddenly the sound of battle fell away, to be replaced with an eerie silence. Thyre peeked out from behind her makeshift barricade and stifled a gasp.

  Bodies littered the ship, men who had enjoyed Ragnfast’s hospitality and who had survived the storm only to die in battle. They had not done anything to warrant the attack. They had treated Ragnfast with respect. They had not come to plunder. They had come in peace and had been attacked without warning. Nothing could justify that. And she knew that her bonfire had alerted Sigmund. It must have done. Her stomach heaved.

  A sickening sweet scent hung in the air, and decks were wet with sea water and red blood. She knew the dead would go to Valhalla, but it was not the same as being alive. And she hated to think what had happened to Ivar. She owed him her life and it was a humbling thought.

  Heavy footsteps resounded on the wooden plank connecting the boats.

  ‘Ivar Gunnarson, how pleasant it is to meet this way,’ Sigmund’s voice rang out. Instead of his usual fawning lisp, Sigmund’s tone dripped irony and contempt. ‘I do believe your ship has experienced a mishap.’

  ‘Ah, Sigmund Sigmundson, I thought it was your stench that hung on the breeze, but as you chose to hide your face I could not be certain.’ Ivar’s voice rumbled from some place to her left.

  Thyre lifted a bit of sacking and risked a glance towards it. Thin trails of blood trickled down his face, and his hand held a red-stained sword, but Ivar lived and without any obvious wounds. Thyre hated the way her heart rejoiced to see him alive. She knew she should be cheering Sigmund’s victory, but something about his sneer and the manner in which he had left the men in the sinking ship to Ran’s fabled net made her recoil. A leader should look after his men.

  ‘You can be certain now. I am the victor of this battle.’

  ‘For now. Victory can be a fleeting thing.’

  ‘For always.’ Sigmund wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘My brother died when we last met.’

  ‘Your brother died because he attempted to stab Vikar Hrutson in the back—always a dangerous thing to do after you surrender.’

  ‘He was my brother and now his shade will cease to cry vengeance.’ Sigmund waved his hand. ‘I knew you were too cunning to go down in that storm. In which bay did you hide?’

  ‘The sea is like a mother and father to my Sea Witch.’

  ‘My best ship went down in that storm, chasing you and your goods. Nothing could have survived it on the open sea.’

  Thyre risked a breath. Her mind reeled. Ivar had told the truth. Sigmund had chased him, and had been hunting him still. He was supposed to be protecting the shores of Ranrike, rather than going after trading vessels, waiting in his bay until someone lit a beacon, signalling their need. She remembered how he explained the system of beacons to her, in case there should be a need. How many more lies had she believed?

  ‘But we survived, as you can see.’ Ivar gestured about him. ‘Viken ships are hardier. It is why we travel to far-off lands to trade and you are forced to prey on passing vessels.’

  ‘Ah, you have fresh rope, Ranriken rope,’ Sigmund said with a curl of his lip. ‘You need not worry. I will discover who dared give you such a thing.’

  ‘Is hospitality now a crime?’ Ivar asked. ‘How curious Ranriken customs are.’

  ‘I will enforce my will and the king of Ranrike agrees.’ Sigmund raised his blade so the tip of it touched Ivar’s cheek. ‘No help given to the Viken vermin.’

  ‘Your sword appears to be bright and shiny without a drop of blood on it,’ Ivar said.

  Thyre narrowed her gaze. Ivar was right. Sigmund’s sword was without a stain. He had not taken part in the battle.

  He had risked his men’s lives, but not his own. Sigmund had hidden in his boat until victory was assured. It was his way—to move in the shadows and strike like a snake, then to claim everything for himself. Ragnfast had complained bitterly of his habit once when he had drunk too much mead. Now she saw, he had not even understood the half of it. Sigmund Sigmundson was a coward with little or no honour.

  Silently she slipped the dagger into her boot, grateful she had realised Sigmund’s treachery before it was too late.

  ‘Are you volunteering to spill yours?’ Sigmund asked, pressing the shining blade into Ivar’s cheek.

  A thin line of red appeared, but Ivar remained still. ‘I never volunteer anything.’

  ‘Brave words, but you will surrender to save your skin.’

  ‘Surrender? A Viken never surrenders. You must remind me of that unique Ranrike custom.’

  ‘Your head is addled, Viken. You are in no position to dictate terms.’ Sigmund coughed and brushed a speck from his black cloak. ‘You have lost. The day belongs to Ranrike. You will kiss my rings and beg me for mercy.’

  ‘Victory can prove fleeting if the leader proves to be somewhat less than a warrior,’ Ivar replied, looking Sigmund straight in the eyes.

  Every muscle ached, but he had fought until they were overwhelmed. Both the Viken and Ranriken warriors knew the difference between a battle-stained sword and a bright one. If he could get Sigmund to react and challenge him to single combat, there was still a chance that he could win the day.

  All of his muscles contracted, waiti
ng for the briefest of openings. Behind him, he heard the shuffling of his men’s feet, and their groans. But Ivar did not permit his gaze to waver. Sigmund had to take the challenge.

  ‘I am proud of my men, proud to have fought alongside them. We are a felag bound by blood-oaths.’

  ‘Some customs are overrated. Counters are always expendable when guarding the king in tafl.’

  ‘Men are far from being glass counters.’

  ‘That is your opinion. What did your men give their life for?’

  ‘The men who died will even now be dining at Valhalla, but it is not a place for men with bright swords,’ Ivar said softly, taunting Sigmund.

  ‘Why is there any need to risk my sword arm, Ivar?’ Sigmund’s mouth curled and he spat on the ground. ‘I have already proven its worth…even against vermin like the Viken.’

  ‘You should not insult my people,’ Ivar replied steadily, willing Sigmund to respond with a sword thrust. Such a move would signal the start of the combat. ‘Viken warriors have more honour in their little fingers than the Ranrike do in their whole bodies. The concept of honour has no meaning to you.’

  ‘Only those who have clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies, can afford such words. I know what traitors Viken can be. How they boast of their prowess with the sword, but yield at the slightest hint of gold.’

  ‘Are you describing yourself, Sigmund?’

  Ivar drew in his breath and willed the warrior to respond. His guards had slackened their hold on his arms. Most Viken warriors would be raging with anger at the insult, but not Sigmund. An amused smile played on his lips.

  ‘How would you describe me, Viken?’

  ‘A man who moves in the shadows and sends out untrained boys to do his dirty work.’

  ‘I know what drives people, even people like you, Ivar Gunnarson.’

  ‘Honour and duty are worth the price.’

  ‘Brave words, but foolish for someone who has lost.’ Sigmund’s smile turned cruel. ‘You will have to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘By you?’ Every muscle in Ivar’s body tensed. Despite the tiredness from the battle, his muscles itched for the chance to cross swords. ‘I welcome the opportunity to fight you—man to man. We will settle this quarrel as Norsemen.’