‘Ivar Gunnarson, jaarl of Viken, my lady.’
Thyre froze as the murmur rose behind her. Ivar Gunnarson. Ivar the scarred. Even here in the back waters of Ranrike, they had heard of him and his fellow Viken jaarls who had braved sea serpents to cross the Atlantic and had returned with a vast treasure from Lindisfarne. They were said to be some of the luckiest men alive, basking in Odin and Thor’s favour, Ivar particularly. It was his prowess with the sail and ships that enabled the Viken to cross the sea. And he had fought the Ranrike before, killing Sigmund’s brother. Now he was here, formidable and capable of wrecking the same destruction on her home as he and his companions had on Lindisfarne.
She stifled a gasp as Dagmar began to trip forwards, holding out her horn of ale. Her earlier plan to serve ale to show they were not a prosperous farm had been shoddy and wrong. She should have thought about the pitfalls and how easily a jaarl could take offence.
Sour ale was unlikely to bring about anything but war. It would give them the pretext for burning the farm to the ground. She had to act before the jaarl tasted it, realised the intended insult and destroyed them all.
Thyre raised her hand, signalling the danger to Dagmar, but Dagmar was oblivious to the potential disaster. Her smile became more flirtatious as she held out the horn to the Viken jaarl. Thyre forgot to breathe. Dagmar hadn’t seen her warning.
Ivar Gunnarson took the horn from Dagmar’s grasp and slowly lifted it to his lips.
Chapter Two
Thyre covered her mouth with her hand, unable to do anything but watch in horror.
Everything froze and time slowed.
Thyre wanted to run forwards, but her feet appeared rooted to the spot. A thousand images of burning and destruction rushed through her brain. And the worst was that she knew this mess was her fault. Would he draw his sword? She had to do something. There had to be a way of preventing bloodshed. But her mind refused to work, refused to find the necessary answer.
Just as the horn touched the Viken jaarl’s lips, Rag-nfast reached out and joggled the Viken’s elbow, sending the contents spilling over the ground and the jaarl’s leather boots.
‘Clumsy woman,’ Ragnfast swore, breaking the spell. ‘She should take greater care.’
Thyre’s lungs worked again. Ragnfast had realised the danger and had averted it. They might still be saved if everyone kept their head. She darted forwards and whispered in Dagmar’s ear as Ragnfast began to call upon the gods to forgive this clumsy woman and her unintended insult. At Thyre’s words, Dagmar stopped her furious exclamation and her mouth formed an O.
Thyre gave Dagmar’s shoulder a pat. Her heart stopped racing. The jaarl appeared to accept the incident was an accident, but she would have to speak to Ragnfast about the enthusiasm of his denunciation.
‘My daughter will be suitably punished,’ Ragnfast said after he had finished calling on the entire legion of gods and goddesses to witness his shame.
‘Woe is me, what shall I do?’ Dagmar intoned, getting into the spirit of the thing.
‘Her beauty more than makes up for any clumsiness.’ The jaarl inclined his head, but his hand remained poised over his sword’s hilt.
Thyre fought against the urge to roll her eyes. Dagmar’s golden loveliness captivated every man she encountered. The gods had truly blessed Dagmar at her birth.
She glanced up and the jaarl’s vivid blue gaze caught hers again. His lips curved upwards in an intimate smile as if he knew who was responsible for the mishap. Thyre blinked and the look vanished.
‘Quickly now, daughter, go get some more mead,’ Ragnfast said. ‘Don’t keep the jaarl waiting.’
‘Mead?’ Dagmar squeaked. ‘But I thought—’
‘I will get it, Ragnfast. I know where it has been put,’ Thyre said firmly. ‘The barrels were moved when I supervised the spring cleaning. I would not want to inadvertently give offence to the jaarl.’
Dagmar demurely lowered her lashes. ‘Thyre knows where everything is and I get muddled so easily.’
‘Very well, Thyre, but go quickly. The Viken need their proper refreshment.’ Ragnfast waved his hand.
Thyre walked away from the Viken group, her stomach knotting. Her legs wanted to collapse, but she forced them to move unhurriedly as if nothing was wrong. After all the omens she found it impossible to rid her mind of the thought, ‘destruction was coming’, just as it had once before to her mother. She clearly remembered her mother saying that she must wear her best dress and prettiest smile if ever the Viken came to call again and that it might save her. What had her mother thought when she had first met the Viken king? Had she been attracted to him straight away or had that come later?
Ivar watched the dark-haired woman stalk away, her hips slightly swaying as her skirts revealed shapely ankles and the hint of a well-shaped calf. Deep blue-violet eyes and black as midnight hair contrasted with the light blue-eyed blondeness of the rest of the farmstead. Her heart-shaped face with the dimple in the middle of her chin tugged intriguingly at his memory. There was something about the way she held her head. It reminded him of a woman, a woman who had once held the entire Viken court in the palm of her hand before vanishing into the mists.
The spilling of the ale had been no accident. It had happened on her initiative. He had seen the look pass between the woman and the farmer after he had announced his identity. This woman controlled the farm.
Who exactly was she? The farmer’s wife? Concubine?
He nodded towards the retreating figure. ‘Your daughter?’
‘My daughter, the prettiest woman in Ranrike,’ the farmer said, sweeping an overly obvious blonde forwards, the one to whom his name and reputation apparently had no meaning. The woman winced slightly as her eyes met his scar, but she rapidly recovered as she gave a bobbing curtsy.
‘And the other woman, is she your daughter as well?’ Ivar pointedly looked towards the farmhouse. The woman’s skirt was just visible as she entered the darkened door way. Brisk. Efficient. Had she been the one to decide on ale, to offer the insult? Or had she been the one to realise the danger? Or both?
‘My stepdaughter. My late wife’s child. I took her in after her mother’s death. There was nowhere else for her to go.’ The farmer ran a finger around the neck of his tunic and his eyes flicked everywhere except on Ivar’s face.
Ivar tilted his head to one side, assessing the farmer. There was more to this tale. That woman wielded too much power to be there out of pity or duty. She held herself as if she was at court, rather than standing on a windswept beach. He normally preferred women who lowered their lashes demurely to women who tried to control one. Women like Thorkell’s queen. But there was something in the way her eyes challenged him that made him think again.
‘Indeed?’ Ivar waited for the farmer to continue.
‘The woman has very little to her name, but I hold true to my promise to her late mother.’
‘It is well that you honour your debts. Her mother was a lucky woman to have such a husband. Not everyone would have been as generous.’
‘Thyre’s mother was truly an exceptional woman. It was a sad day for us all when she died. My world has never been the same.’ The farmer shrugged and his eyes became shadowed as he toyed with his leather tunic. ‘I do what I can for her daughter. But my farmstead is poor and we barely manage to eke a living from the soil.’
Ivar glanced up at the gabled longhouse with its weatherbeaten ravens. It was not as fine as Thorkell’s palace, or even Vikar’s estate in the north, but it exuded an air of shabby prosperity at the head of a good bay. Either this farmer was inept or someone was trying to mislead him. But who? Not the farmer. This was the mysterious dark-haired woman’s doing.