LITMIR.BIZ

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of lighting the bonfire to alert Sigmund to their potential danger.

      ‘Sigmund and his cronies may have broken frithe with the Viken King Thorkell, but I haven’t,’ Ragnfast thundered. ‘I remember the days, the days of our old king, King Mysing’s father, when Ranrike prospered and the markets overflowed with goods. Ships sailed to Ranhiem rather than to Birka or Kaupang. Now it is all bloodshed and plunder. My taste for bloodshed vanished a lifetime ago.’

      ‘Dagmar, are the horns of drink filled properly?’ Thyre asked, seeking to draw Ragnfast back to the present difficulty. Dagmar held up her horn of ale. Thyre was pleased that Ragnfast had agreed to her suggestion of ale rather than mead. It was only one ship, not a fleet. The Viken would understand. He was likely not high enough status to warrant a better drink. And this way he would think them a poor homestead rather than a prosperous estate. ‘The other women and I can follow Dagmar after the Viken captain has the first drink.’

      ‘It is a good idea, Thyre,’ Ragnfast said. ‘We do not have the men to provoke him. A soft word and a timely fluttered eyelash can do much, as your mother used to say.’

      ‘Thyre, that is your second-best apron dress,’ Dagmar whispered. ‘And your face is far too solemn. What is there to worry about? Greeting warriors is supposed to be a happy occasion. We should honour them.’

      ‘I have had more than enough swaggering boasts from Sigmund’s warriors. I wonder if the Viken will be any different? All brawn and very little brain is my educated guess.’ Thyre pasted her smile firmly in place. She remembered her mother’s stories of her time as a hostage in the Viken court, about how fights broke out at the least provocation.

      What excuse would the Viken use to destroy this farm? And what would they say if they knew who her natural father was, that her mother had disobeyed the time-honoured custom of children conceived in this way? She had not sent her newborn daughter to be killed by the Viken king and had instead prevailed on Ragnfast to accept her as a true Ranrike woman and member of his family.

      ‘Thyre, I think I forgot to put the weaving frame away.’ Dagmar’s voice broke through her reverie. ‘Do you think I should go back? That bit of cloth is nearly done and I was particularly proud of the raven pattern.’

      ‘I already put it away.’ Thyre struggled to keep the doors of her imagination closed. ‘With so many warriors, it would have been in the way. You know how clumsy they are with their feet.’

      ‘You are a love. You always know just what to do.’ Dagmar patted Thyre’s arm. ‘Think positively. Who knows—you may find a mate amongst the Viken? They are supposed to be wealthy.’

      Mate, not husband. The words were unmistakeable and ill-chosen. Thyre made her face into a bland mask. She was well aware of her limited options without Dagmar’s thoughtless reminder. It was unlikely that any warrior would make an offer for her. She had no family, no land, nothing to make a true warrior desire her for a wife.

      She gave a wry smile. Ragnfast had held true to his promise to her mother and let her manage the estate, but she also knew he would not provide a dowry. She refused to be just anyone’s concubine. Royal blood ran in her veins. She deserved better. Her mother would have approved of her decision to stay unwed rather than to marry beneath her. In her dreams, Thyre longed to find the one man who would cherish her in the way her mother had been cherished by Ragnfast. Some day, she wanted to meet a man with whom she could exchange loving glances in the way Ragnfast and her mother had exchanged glances. In the end her mother had discovered love with a man who treated her as an equal, rather than as an accessory, a pawn, or a stepping stone to the throne of Ranrike. In order to marry her mother, Ragnfast had taken an oath of loyalty to King My sing, vowing never to claim the throne in his wife’s name, or to permit any of his children to make a claim.

      ‘I am not looking for anyone. I love it here. It is safe and secure. And if I did, he would have to be more intelligent than those Viken warriors. Can you see the biceps rippling on the leader? Definitely more brawn than brain.’

      Dagmar put her hand on Thyre’s sleeve and whispered in her ear. ‘Love can just happen, as it did between Sven and me. One day, I glanced up and there he was, all silhouetted in gold, his cloak slightly drawn back, and I knew that he was the right man for me.’

      ‘I am not you, Dagmar—in love one day and the next out of it.’

      ‘You mean the warrior from Gotaland last summer who wanted to buy Far’s lumber and thought to get a better price by seducing his daughter? That was nothing. A pure girlish fantasy. I have quite forgotten why I shed all those tears.’ Dagmar sighed dramatically. ‘I have sworn to be true to Sven. I want him to know that should I bear a child, it will be his.’

      A warning twinge went through Thyre. Child? That was fantasy. They knew that Dagmar’s monthly flow had come since Sven had left. Dagmar was given to dramatic statements, but there was something in her eyes. Exactly what had Dagmar sworn to Sven? Dagmar should know that she had no right to swear anything without her father’s consent. It could only lead to heartache. Silently Thyre cursed Sven for being so selfish, and for Dagmar’s fear in telling her father.

      Once the Viken had departed, she would discover more about this oath. Unless it was made with Rag-nfast’s consent, it was empty words.

      ‘The dragon boat has landed! The Viken have arrived!’ The cry echoed up and down the beach.

      Thyre pressed her lips together. Dagmar appeared normal enough, smoothing her skirt and biting her lips to make them appear ripe cherry red—all the actions she normally took. Thyre hoped her concerns about Dagmar were just wisps of doubt. Perhaps another warrior would capture her fancy, and her oath to Sven would become a distant and unwelcome memory.

      Up close, the Viken dragon boat showed signs of battering from the storm—a broken oar, a battered prow and loose ropes—but nothing major. Not like the poor Ranriken ship whose remains were still scattered over the shore. Had it been hunting this Viken one? And if so, what had this Viken ship done? Which other farms had they attacked? Thyre shifted uneasily, weighing the possibilities, but knowing they had no choice but to offer hospitality.

      The Viken warriors splashed ashore. The leader disembarked first, without a helmet or a shield. A gesture of peace, but also of arrogance, Thyre thought. He could have no idea of Ragnfast’s strength, or the defences of the farm.

      The Viken’s golden-brown hair shone in the sunlight and, despite the jagged scar running down his right cheek, his face held a certain grace combined with raw power. He looked like a man unafraid to face the future.

      His vivid blue gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat, tracing her form. She looked directly back at his face, rather than blushing and looking away as custom demanded. He gave a nod, and turned towards where Ragnfast stood, as if that brief instant had never been.

      ‘We are grateful for the warm welcome after the rough seas of last night.’ The warrior made an elaborate bow. Ragnfast’s face reddened slightly and his chest puffed out at the courtesy. ‘We are returning to Kaupang after a successful voyage to the markets of Birka. Last night’s storm caused some damage to my trading vessel. It must be repaired before I continue on.’ His steady gaze met Ragnfast’s, and his words sounded more like a thinly disguised command than a polite request. He held out a stick covered in thick runes. ‘We come in peace.’

      ‘We have no quarrel with the Viken, nor do I seek reassurance from your king.’ Ragnfast barely glanced at the stick before he handed it back. Thyre bit her lip and wished she dared grab it. She highly doubted the truth of the warrior’s words. If they were peaceful, why had the Ranriken ship been wrecked? Sigmund had promised that Ranriken ships only defended. They never attacked the more skilful Viken ships.

      ‘What is your name, Viken?’ Thyre asked, making sure her voice was firm and clear.

      ‘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

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